Page 95 of Masks and Mishaps

“Christian,” Mom calls, but he doesn’t come back. “Hm. Does he seem off? He’s been off today.”

Essie cranes to look at the brussels sprouts Everett and Lander are trimming. “Those are going to be amazing,” she comments. “Is that the same recipe from last year?”

“I loved those,” Mom agrees, moving past the Christian conundrum.

Crisis averted.

I bob my chin at Essie. “But are you good?” I whisper.

“I’m completely fine.”

She’s cute when she lies, but she lives for her brothers. When one isn’t happy, it consumes her. Plus, we just added an eighth layer of messiness to a seven-layer fuckery dip: After our contract ends, Christian is still going to believe I’m a deviant unless we come clean.

“Take a break. I can do that,” I offer.

She shakes her head. “Mashed potatoes are a big deal.”

“Ess,” I urge, staring at her seriously, “let me take care of it.”

Convinced, she nods. “Thank you, Daddy,” she replies—and the entire kitchen freezes.

The timing couldn’t be worse. My mother was out of her chair and reaching over the island for the bowl of apples right when Essie spoke. Now, she slowly faces Essie with a knitted brow.

Essie’s lips part, but all she can do is gape. I don’t blame her. The woman whose son she just called “Daddy” is eyeing herhard.

I clear my throat and ask, “You good, Mom?”

“I am,” she replies as she glances between us. “What about you, Dalt? Areyougood?”

“Yep,” I lie.

“Okay,” she says before she fixes her attention on Essie. “And you? Are you good?”

“Of course,” Essie responds, but she answers too quickly to be convincing. And because my mother is Alyssa Cavendish—a woman who once told a Vanderbilt they were tacky—she’s not going to let this go.

Her elegant hand rises. “Did you…” She points a manicured finger between us. “Did you call him…Daddy?”

“Dalty,” I lie again.

And neither of us—or any of the people watching this horrifying spectacle—are delusional enough to believetheAlyssa Cavendish would ever buy this shit.

“Dalton Franklin Richmond Cavendish the Fourth,” she murmurs. “What—” She puts her hands on the island. “—thefuck—” She grips the marble. “—have you gotten yourself into?”

Essie’s eyes lock on me, and maybe if Christian and his big feelings hadn’t kept her up, she wouldn’t be giving me the saddest, most pleading Bambi eyes I’ve ever seen.

Okay, so…more lies. That’s what I need. Maybe we could cop to some casual sex or—

“The hell?” Everett demands. He’s standing with both hands up, looking at his expensive shirt, where there’s a brown spot on the front.

On the other side of the island, Lander is standing with his arm partially extended like he’s on the back end of a throw.

“You threw a brussels sprout at me,” Everett remarks, shock tinging his words. “Do you have any idea how long it takes a brussels sprout to grow?”

Lander glances at me and lowers his chin like he’s about to storm the beaches at Normandy. “I don’t care how long they take,” he says to Everett. “And they’re better with pancetta.”

Everett flinches as if Lander just elbowed his way to the front of a pack of roman senators so he could be the next one to stab him. “Are you…trying tofight me?”

Good lord.Thisis the diversion? I could have just as easily poked one of Mom’s Le Creuset pots with a metal fork, and she would have forgotten the whole Daddy thing in her rage.

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