Page 54 of Masks and Mishaps

Right then, the waiter arrives, and I’m left looking between Porter and my mother, trying to understand how Mom could love him. It was bad enough she married Frank, butanotherguy who doesn’t care about what their kid does for a living?

“Ow,what?” I mutter when Essie jams her heel into my shin.

“Your turn,” she replies, bobbing her chin at the waiter.

Fuck. “Sorry about that. How are you? Good?” I pass him the menu. “I’ll do the chocolate chip pancakes with a side of scrambled eggs.”

“And can you make sure they’re hard scrambled?” Mom interjects. “He doesn’t like them runny.”

“No,” I cut in, staring gravely at the poor waiter, a kid with a cool as shit nose ring. “I want them runny. I want them moving around like track stars.”

“Dalton,” my mother remarks with a hand against her chest, “since when do you eat runny eggs?”

“People change,” I reply before muttering under my breath, “Clearly.”

Next to me, Essie waves at the waiter. “Actually, I’ll do the blueberry stack and a side of scrambled eggs. Hard scrambled.”

The waiter leaves our weird egg standoff, and it’s awkward—even for me, which is saying a lot because in college I made out with everyone in my Psych 101 lab.

Literally everyone. Even the TA.

When the food arrives, I’m on my second mimosa of the morning.

These runny eggs suck.

I’ve resigned myself to slouching quietly and seeing how many mimosas it’ll take for me to get a decent buzz (seven, I’m guessing), when Essie dumps her eggs onto my plate and scoops the runny ones onto hers without anyone noticing. I didn’t think it was possible to fall more in love, but I’ve summited a new peak.

Taking advantage of my free-use policy, I reach over and place my hand on Essie’s thigh. To my surprise, the tights she’s wearing are actually thigh highs.

Let’s fucking gooooo.

My hand goes higher, and Essie shoots me a gorgeous and threatening expression, which spurs me to slip my fingers under her dress—and she’s commando. It’s my turn to shoot her a look, and her response is a mere shoulder raise.

“Essie, when are you arriving in Rhinebeck?”

“Monday before the wedding,” she responds, facing Mom and pretending I didn’t just push a finger into her pussy. She’s so fuckingwet.

“Are you taking the train?” my mom asks after delicately dabbing the corner of her mouth with her napkin at the exact moment I spread Essie’s arousal.

“I’m driving her,” I mention, taking up a gentle rhythm against her clit. It feels swollen and attentive, and I wonder if it’s from being in my bed earlier, or if my stepsister likes the riskiness of getting fingered under the table in front of our parents.

“Apparently Dalton’s driving me then,” she manages to say before wrenching my finger out from under her skirt.

When my mother looks at her plate, I slip my fingers between my lips and play it off like I’m licking syrup from my fingers. Essie tastes so much better than maple syrup, and she watches me, shifting in her seat. Needy. Ridiculously horny as usual.

“By the way, Dalt, will you be making a toast?” my mother goes on. When I don’t answer, she says, “I mean, you’re so funny and everyone loves to hear you talk…”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Probably for the best,” Porter says, giving my mother a reassuring nod.

…The fuck?

“Care to elaborate, Porter?” I ask, placing my hand back on his daughter’s bare thigh.

“Well, I remember you at our engagement dinner,” he says with an obnoxious laugh. “You were blackout drunk…I assume. Do you remember stacking all the rolls onto your butter knife and pretending it was a snowman?”

“The dinner I paid for?” I clarify in lieu of admitting no, I didnotrecall that particular wintery party trick.

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