Page 16 of Kiss My Glass
“I heard you were in town,” she says. Of course. She probably knew I was coming to Flora Valley before I did.
“You’re looking good,” she adds. “Extra kudos for the green buttons.”
Chiara works here at Bartons as a hotel receptionist, but she’s obviously not on duty now. She’s wearing a shimmery gray rib-knit dress. Because it’s high-necked and maxi length it should look demure. Because it’s skintight it does not.
Now, before there’s any misunderstanding, I do not want to hook up with Chiara. She’s as beautiful as a model, her looks a striking combination of her Italian father and Afro-Caribbean mother. She’s also made it very clear that she has aspirations beyond Verity, and even beyond the rarefied atmosphere of Bartons and the obscenely wealthy connections she can make here. In a couple of years, when she’s saved enough to give her parents a decent nest egg, she’ll be jet-setting away. I admire her ambition, and I enjoy her company. But I also like to keep her at a safe distance. Who knows what dude with a private army might take exception to me horning in? Chiara knows martial arts, so she can protect herself. Me, not so much.
“You aren’t waiting for anyone,” she says. It’s not a question.
“Nope,” I reply. “You?”
“Probably,” she replies, but slides into the chair next to me, anyway.
“Am I going to get a poison dart in the neck if you sit with me?”
She smiles, which isn’t reassuring. The android waiter slides up beside us and dispenses two glasses of sparkling water.
“Good evening,” they say. “Our feature cocktail tonight is an homage to Moorish Iberia, with vintage Armagnac, Dutch jenever, crème caramel tea, vermouth, an acorn infusion, and a cacao leaf tincture.”
“Two, thank you, Aubrey,” says Chiara.
“No octopus milk? I’m disappointed.”
Chiara ignores me and my lack of class.
And says, instead, “So – you and Frankie. When will you accept that you have a thing for each other?”
PSA: never take a mouthful of sparkling water before Chiara plays her opening gambit. Some minutes later, after I’ve stopped coughing and the last bubbles have drained from my sinuses, I’m able to speak.
“What the actual?” I say. “Frankie Armstrong hates me!”
“Yes, I gather you’ve been bickering like cats,” says Chiara. “It’s always fun when a relationship starts off that way. Spices it up no end.”
I’m goggling at her, mouth open like a fairground clown.
“You’re insane,” I manage. “Frankie and I will never have a relationship. For one, I’m not attracted to her.”
“Is that the smell of pants on fire?” Chiara says, with a smile. “It could be woodsmoke birch spirit, but I think not.”
I give up. I know when I’m beaten. Even Ava bows down to Chiara’s skills.
“Okay, so she’s gorgeous,” I admit. “But come on, she’d rather see me tarred and feathered than naked in her bed.”
Of course, that’s exactly when the waiter appears with our cocktails. This being Bartons, not a flicker of surprise crosses their face. They’ve probably overheard plans for world domination, so rough justice with a hint of nudity is a mere trifle.
“You know that for certain, do you?” Chiara asks, after the waiter has glided away. “Without a shadow of a doubt?”
“I don’t suppose I can askyouto confirm or deny, can I?” I say. “It would save me a lot of time, and potential humiliation.”
“I’ve got you this far—” Chiara removes an entire ikebana arrangement from her glass. “You now accept the possibility of an alternative perspective. That a relationship with Frankie Armstrong is a viable goal. A point to which you were very easily led, might I add. I thought we would have needed at least two cocktails to get you to cave.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“But now the baton is in your hand, and you need to run with it.”
She sips her cocktail. Seems to find it palatable. I suspect that even if it were pure cyanide, she’d have trained herself to overcome its effects.
“Why do you do this?” I ask. “Get involved in people’s love lives?”
