Page 34 of Skin Deep

So apparently rich people drank their wine a certain way. Duly noted. She sniffed awkwardly at her glass, sipped again and received a thin smile, but a smile regardless from Frederick Sr.

“How’s that cocktail coming, Dad?” Sensing her discomfort, Fred cast his father a look. With light pressure in the fingers that rested at the small of her back, he quickly and smoothly steered her across the room, stopping in front of his twin. Amy’s fingers clutched the stem of her wineglass tightly as Fred clapped his brother on the shoulder, then shook the second man’s hand.

“Amy, you know Frank.” Still put off by Frank’s backhanded comments that afternoon, Amy didn’t offer a hand. “This is his boyfriend, Mark.”

So Frank was bisexual, or pansexual. Not something that would normally have her even raising an eyebrow, but she did wonder what the very proper Frederick Sr. and Rosemary thought of it, when her own reception had been so very lukewarm. Of course, clad in a pricey-looking blue button-down, navy blazer and well-cut charcoal trousers, Mark gave off a very different vibe than she did.

A bead of cold sweat rolled down her spine. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so uncomfortable. Why was she doing this again?

Fred chose that moment to press a light kiss to the silky gold curls on her head. An absentminded gesture, but it sent warmth streaming throughout her entire body.

This. This was why she was here, at this dinner where she didn’t feel entirely welcome. And maybe it would all be okay.

“You know Frank as well? How interesting.” With her own glass of wine in hand now, Rosemary settled herself back on the sofa. An amused smile curled her lips. “How did you come to meet my boys? Neither of them seems the type for tattoos.”

Another subtle zinger from a Vaughan. Lovely.

“Well, I lease a space in the newest Vaughan Enterprises property,” Amy started. She stood tall, trying to draw confidence from her core. Fred pressed his hand more firmly against her back, so she continued. “But I actually met them both in Europe, five years ago.”

“The infamous postgrad Europe trip.” Mark elbowed his boyfriend lightly, careful not to let his martini slosh over the edge. “You were there? I have so many questions.”

“All in due time,” Frederick Sr. started, “but I can see Margaret waving from the kitchen. Let us adjourn to the dining room, shall we?”

Wrapping an arm around her waist, Fred steered Amy toward the attached room, with its long mahogany table and velvet-cushioned chairs. As he pulled out her chair for her, he bent to whisper into her ear. “You’re doing great.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” she replied through a bright, fake smile. He rolled his eyes.

“Amy.” Settling himself into the chair next to her, he ran a finger along the line of her jaw, just one quick movement. “I don’t want you to pretend to be who you think they want you to be, okay? Just be yourself. Be the woman I lo—the woman I know.”

The woman he what?

“What did you just say?” Amy turned fully in her chair to face him, but then the woman she assumed was Margaret, a young woman with pale blond hair, was there. She took the crisp cloth napkin from the table in front of Amy, flicking it through the air before laying it gently in her lap. She repeated the action for every person at the table, then disappeared into what Amy assumed was the kitchen. She returned with a tray, placing small bowls of soup in front of each of them. Amy dragged her attention back to the table. She reached for a spoon, then froze.

In front of her was a place setting more intricate than anything she’d come across before. Could all this really be for her? A quick glance around the table showed her the same setting at every place. Unlike her, however, no one else seemed intimidated by it.

The central feature was a plate, shiny gold and larger than a dinner plate. The napkin now on her lap had been resting on top of it. Arranged precisely around the plate were four different forks, two spoons, two knives, another napkin, a bread plate and four glasses. She looked from all of it to the soup and back again. Which one was she supposed to use?

“Work from the outside in,” Fred leaned in toward her and whispered. He nodded slightly toward the correct spoon. Amy picked it up, hoping nobody had noticed, but a quick glance showed her that Rosemary had noted her hesitation.

Well, whatever. So she didn’t come from a household where they used four forks per meal. Whatever.

There was silence for a moment, spoons and china clinking as everyone worked on their soup. Once Frederick Sr. was done, he sat back, eyeing her again.

“Let’s circle back to our earlier discussion. How did you meet the boys?” He took a large sip of wine, which Amy noticed had been topped up, in a fresh glass. She thought briefly of the extra washing involved with all this excess and couldn’t quite wrap her head around it.

She didn’t like it. And while she wasn’t quite ready to give up on the evening just yet, she decided there and then that she wasn’t going to feel bad for not fitting in.

“I met both Fred and Frank in a club in Amsterdam.” She continued to eat her soup.

“And you’ve kept in contact with them?” Rosemary set down her spoon. “I must say, neither of them has ever mentioned your name.”

Zing.

“That would be difficult, as neither of them knew it.” Amy took another polite spoonful of soup. “This soup is lovely. My compliments to the chef.”

“I don’t imagine you’ve ever had lobster bisque.” Frederick Sr. nodded at her down the table. “I believe the next course is beef Wellington. This meal should be a treat for you.”

His words weren’t meant to be cruel, but Amy caught what he hadn’t said out loud. That he assumed she didn’t eat meals like this because he couldn’t imagine she could afford it.

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