Page 23 of Mastered by Them

Font Size:

As Edmund and I head out, he turns to me with a grin. “Tomorrow night, after Abdul’s. We’ll bring Danica here.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea?—”

“She’ll love it. You’ll be here, too. We’ll have all the fun possible before the wedding.”

He walks out, whistling, not a care in the world.

Does he hear himself?

I don’t think he does.

Danica

Abdul’s is one of the stuffiest restaurants in San Esteban. I shift in my chair, hoping the hem of my slinky dress isn’t hiking up too much. I don’t want to scandalize everyone here.

Edmund faces me from across the table. “Did I already tell you that you look gorgeous tonight?”

I adjust the strap of my dress and frown. “Only about ten times.”

“Then I haven’t said it enough.”

“You’re too smooth.”

He’s gifted in the art of compliments, offering them often, praising me. I flick a glance over at Troy. He isn’t at our table, of course. The bodyguard could hardly be expected to sit in on a date. He’s seated at his own table with Jon, the driver. The two barely speak to each other. I hate this. Troy should be sitting here, with Edmund and me.

The server arrives with our dessert—a scoop of caramel-rose ice cream to share. Edmund gestures that I should take the first bite.

The ice cream is good, but not as good as Isabelle’s.

He watches my face, gauging my reaction. “You don’t like it?”

“It’s not bad at all.”

“You’ve had better,” he guesses. “Where? At your job?”

He’s smooth and insightful. Does any detail escape his notice? It’s like I’m a school subject and he is determined to get an A-plus.

“The flavor is good, but it could be stronger. It’s like they were afraid to lean into it, so it tastes a little weak.”

His grin is infectious. “So you’re an ice cream connoisseur.”

“Hmm, not exactly. I just know what I like.” And what I don’t like. I give him a glare.

Unbothered by my dagger eyes, he asks, “What’s your favorite flavor?”

“Currently? Horchata. But it changes all the time.”

“Let’s go now.” He signals for the check.

Troy and Jon sit up, alert that we’re getting ready to go.

I laugh. “Edmund, we can’t go to Isabelle’s.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s almost eleven. The shop is closed.”

His shoulders fall. “Fine. How about going somewhere else, then? I have a good place in mind.”