Page 60 of Our Elliana

“Making Noah’s dinner.”

“And the menu is...”

The bastard smiles at me, actually smiles. “We’re having walleye almondine, lobster tails, boiled Alaskan crab legs with lots of clarified butter, and sides.”

“Why?” I ask him, feeling horrified even though I knew it had to be something like that.

“Because it’s the kid’s favorite,” Tristan declares, and my gut roils. “Why do you look so green?”

“Because I’m allergic, fucker.”

All Tristan does is laugh.

I’ve been around the pong of this crap long enough to make me nauseous and have to hightail it, so I burst out of the kitchen as if some miscreant set off a stink bomb.

As far as I’m concerned, he did.

Elle must’ve seen me skedaddle because she lights some odor-absorbing candles next to where I’ll be sitting. This is one of the many reasons why I’ve come to worship the ground she walks on.

We have dinner, and I manage to get by with consuming only sides that haven’t been in contact with any of the main dishes. The good news is that I can now concentrate all my attention on plying Noah with my fun selection of spirits.

“Time to join the adults,” I tell him, slapping him on the back. “You’ve had the sex, now on to the revelry.”

“Well,” Noah squints at the line of bottles hesitantly. “I’ve never tried any. It’s forbidden by the church.”

“You mean the church you no longer belong to,” I remind him. “Why not flip them the bird once and for all by downing a few of these?”

“I don’t know...” Noah purses his lips and wrinkles his nose.

“They rejected your family, right?” I encourage him. The kid nods. “Well, I can’t think of a better way to clear away some of that sting than to reject their principles. You don’t owe them anything.”

Tristan is throwing Noah some contemplative glances as if wondering if he’ll actually go through with it, but Elliana pats the top of his hand.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, honeybunny.”

“I know,” he tells her. “But you know what? Jackson is right.” He waves his hand at the array as if making some earth-shattering statement. Maybe for him, this is one. “Okay. Bring it on.”

“Yes,” I cheer, unscrewing one and handing it to him. I figure starting him out on the lowest alcohol by volume would be wise and go with the vodka since it’s forty percent.

He takes a miniscule sip and winces. Noticeably. I have to bite my bottom lip to keep from laughing out loud because that shit is funny.

“Ugh, what is that stuff made of? Battery acid?”

“Nope. It’s actually made from potatoes. Have some more. It gets better.” Noah scrunches his brows at me, but he takes another sip. “Here. Let me show you how it’s done.”

Hopping up and entering the kitchen, I pull down some of Elle’s shot glasses, enough for each of us. Pouring the vodka into Noah’s and mine, I turn to the others.

“And what’s your preference, sweet thing?”

“Rum.”

“Tristan?”

“Tequila for me.”

“Never would’ve taken you for a worm man, but I like it,” I goad the chef, smirking as he rolls his eyes at me.

“We’ll all do it together,” I swear to Noah. “Ready everyone? One. Two. Three.”

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