Page 129 of Say Yes to the Death

“I’m sorry,” she said. She had known this was a mistake from the moment George walked through the door. It was time she owned up to it.

He paused.

“You’re right. I went too far. I thought maybe you were being dramatic with the whole estranged brother thing. I didn’t realize how much I’d actually be punishing you by inviting him tonight. This was a terrible idea.” She sat back on the edge of her bed and turned away from him again. She couldn’t watch him leave.

There were footsteps on the hardwood floor. Luke sat next to her and took her hand. “You’ve had better ideas.”

“I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I was so angry at you. I’m still angry at you, if I’m being honest. But you’re right, inviting your brother was needlessly cruel and didn’t help solve anything. This night is a disaster. Your brother’s an opinionated dick. My stepmother is a multi-level marketing hippie. My father is even more uncomfortable than I am.”

Luke passed her the flask again. She took another small sip, vowing to abstain from alcohol for at least a week…after tonight.

“Should we get this over with?” He offered his hand.

She raised her eyes slowly. “You’re not leaving?”

Luke shook his head. “I’m sorry for threatening that. That’s the kind of shit my mom used to pull on my dad. If you’re willing to work on this—us—then I’m not going anywhere. I’m willing to talk, and to work this out like adults. Leaving in the middle of an argument isn’t healthy.”

Wow, how mature of him.

“Thank you.” Claire stood, steeling herself.

“We can do this,” he encouraged.

She caught his arm before he opened the door. Maybe it was the whiskey, or the fact that they had talked—really talked—for the first time since Paris. Or maybe it was the apartment full of attack-hugging and occupation-dropping strangers. Something in her ached for him. She tugged him back to her, hungrily drawing his mouth to hers.

Luke pulled her in as though he would never let go. The smell of sunshine and freshly cut grass enveloped her. His thumb grazed over her cheek, and she nearly moaned. There was more than passion in this kiss. There was longing, frustration, and an apology. His fingers fisted in her hair, and her hand snaked around to cop a feel. She had missed that glorious butt.

A titter of laughter sounded from the living room.

Claire broke away. She blinked slowly, slightly dazed after the kiss. “We should get back out there.” A true smile blossomed for the first time that evening.

“One more.” Luke drew her in again.

“Maybe they’ll have all killed each other,” she said breathlessly as he kissed her neck.

“We can only hope.”

The salad and soup course were largely uneventful. The salad had come from a bag, and the soup from a can, but that didn’t stop Tanya from raving over it. Jack and George had an uncomfortable political conversation. Tanya said what seemed to be a pagan prayer, offering thanks to the “Earth Mother” for their bounty. George refused to eat anything with carbs in it and informed everyone he only ate 1,200 calories a day.

“You know, Claire, you have a half sister,” Tanya said in her irritatingly positive way.

“I heard rumors.”

Tanya plowed on. “You might actually know of her. Her name is Brianna. Brianna Hartley.”

Claire’s fork tumbled out of her hand.

“You’re joking. The Brianna Hartley from?—”

“Fool’s Silver? For the Love of Frosting? Aidan’s Peak?” Luke interrupted with a rapid-fire list of movies. All those titles were in the “guilty pleasure” section of his floor-to-ceiling DVD cabinet in the screening room.

“The one and only,” Tanya said, laughing again. “We don’t get to see her very often because she’s usually in Los Angeles or New York, but I’m sure she would love to meet you.”

“That would be…nice,” Claire said, sitting back in her chair. She would rather set herself on fire. Of course her half sister was a young, beautiful, famous actress. Probably a vapid narcissist too. She should have brought the flask to the table.

“Your lasagna is delicious, Claire,” Luke said, laying a hand on her knee under the table. He squeezed it once.

“Oh, thank you. It’s my mother’s recipe.”

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