Page 22 of The Wrong Fiancée

I bit the inside of my cheek, fighting back a laugh, watching the shocked faces of the Thatcher party. Dean had just dropped a truth bomb the size of Mauna Kea, and by the look on Felicity's face, she wasn't quite sure whether to be mortified or furious. Maybe both.

"Dean," Felicity repeated, her voice slightly higher this time, like if she repeated his name in a tone that suggested she was deeply wounded, he'd suddenly apologize for daring to speak out of turn. But nope. Dean just leaned back in his chair, calm as a cat lounging in the sun, like he hadn't just verbally drop-kicked his future in-laws.

Ginny's face was a tight knot of displeasure, her hand clutching her menu like she might strangle it. "Well," she huffed, "we'll want some wine, and this time, send the Sommelier." She glanced at me and gave in to the urge to say something cutting, "I didn't appreciate your choices the last time."

No shit, Sherlock! It's because you have the palate of a moron, I thought petulantly. There was such malice in her face as if she wanted to rub it in that I was too lowly to even recommend wine for them. Did it hurt? Yes. I was human. When people threw barbs at me, pain seared through me mostly because it was confirmation of what I already knew—I was simply not good enough and would never be. I'd always be a failure and never reach my dreams. I'd keep working to take care of a sister who'd never appreciate me. I'd keep working in hotels at the bottom of the food chain while dreaming about studying art and working in that world.

Ginny would enjoy knowing that her comment had been successful, so I smiled brightly, refusing to give her satisfaction.

"Of course, Mrs. Thatcher. I'll ask the Sommelier to come to your table as soon as he can."

I looked around the table and waited for someone to order their drinks. Dean's eyes flicked up to meet mine, and I was surprised to see kindnessandregret.

I took the drinks orders and sent Makai, our Sommelier, to the table. He obviously knew the Thatchers and groaned. No one liked Ginny or Felicity. Sure, they went after me, but they were entitled bitches who raised hell if anything was out of place.

By the time their drinks were served, wine was opened and poured, and I came to get their food orders, there was a buzz of easy conversation at their table; the alcohol, I assumed, had mellowed them all out.

"I'll have the porterhouse, medium-rare, with a side of truffle butter," Uncle Sam said, his voice weak as always. You could practically hear the apology in his tone. The man couldn't make a decision without double-checking to make sure no one else had a problem with it. He avoided eye contact as he handed me the menu.

"Excellent choice," I said softly. I felt sorry for him—at least I was on my own; I didn't have to live with someone like Ginny, who kept scratching away until she drew blood.

Predictably, Rebecca and Michael didn't even acknowledge me as they ordered. Rebecca chose the lobster bisque and filet mignon, and Michael grunted something about ahi tuna. They had perfected the art of acting like I was a piece of furniture. Their daughter, Cristin, though, was in rare form.

She tilted her head at me, her lips curling in smugly. "I'll have the grilled mahi-mahi—extra lemon, no butter—and remember to tell the chef not to overcook it this time." She looked around the table as she handed me her menu. "Last year, when we were here, the halibut was horrendous."

I stared at her for a second, deadpan, then smiled. "I'll make sure they give the mahi-mahi the attention it deserves."

Theo, bless his heart, smiled at me sympathetically. "I'll take the ribeye, Elika. And, could I get a beer, whatever is on draft. Thewine isn't working for me." His smile widened as if to say, I'm sorry for all of this.

Yeah, me too, braddah.

I gave him a quick nod before turning back to Dean. He was still watching me, a faint smile playing on his lips. I couldn't decide whether he was enjoying himself or feeling awkward.

"Mr. Archer?" I asked, pen and notepad in hand, though I never used them. I was good at remembering orders and making sure everyone got exactly what they asked for—just as they’d expect at a high-end restaurant.

He leaned forward slightly, ignoring the glares from around the table. "Elika, I'll have the market green salad and the thirty-day Creekstone Farm ribeye, medium rare. Please choose some sides for me that you feel would be best suited."

I knew he disliked fries—that should've been a warning. I mean, who dislikes fried potatoes? I also knew that he loved mushrooms. Was he testing me to see if I remembered what we ate for two weeks all those years ago?

We didn’t eat at the resort. We went out—probably, I realized later, so no one he knew would see us together. After my shift, he’d insist on taking me to dinner. He always paid the tab, and while I felt guilty, I couldn’t afford the places he chose. Often, we took the dessert back to his suite. One night, we had a particularly memorable time with chocolate fondue—though I’m sure housekeeping wasn’t thrilled with what we did to the sheets.

My heart quickened, and I couldn’t help but wish I were in some parallel universe—one where it was me sitting next to Dean, that embarrassingly huge and beautiful ring onmyfinger instead of Felicity’s.

That pulled me out of my reverie as soundly as a wave slammed into me unexpectedly.

He's marrying Felicity. He belongs to another woman, not that he was ever yours, Elika.

I suggested, "How do you feel about Enoki mushrooms with garlic and scallion sauce, and creamed corn served with smoked anchovy butter and topped with paprika panko?"

"That sounds good. Thank you, Elika."

He winked. He actually winked, and I had to force myself not to roll my eyes. Instead, I smiled, collected the menus, and made my way back toward the kitchen, hearing Felicity muttering something to her mother in a hushed, indignant tone.

"You okay there, Elika?" Makai, our Sommelier, asked me.

I quirked an eyebrow. "Yeah, I'm all good."

"They still giving you trouble?" he asked, nodding toward the Thatcher table.

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