Page 70 of Bought
“Shh.”
“I give her roses,” Falcon gasps. “For both of our anniversaries.”
“That’s sweet.”
Cleopatra shakes her head. “I’m so sorry, Erin. I should have thought of it when you first brought the flowers. That sure was sweet of you, though.”
Deciding to join the conversation, Ryan chimes in with, “At least it’s not a nut allergy. That’ll make you die.”
“Ryan,” I chide.
Poor Falcon. His eyes keep running. He coughs. I feel terrible. They’ve gone out of their way to host us, and I’ve brought poison into their home.
“I’ll live,” he chokes out.
I peek at Lucian for comfort, but he’s deep in a low conversation with Blaze. This is not going well.
Things do settle down, thankfully. Falcon lives to tell us about the amazing cut of steak he’s serving us. Sharon begins dishing second helpings of her famous cracker-topped mac n’ cheese.
After only hanging out with us three women at home and eating the cheap boxed pasta, Ryan is in heaven.
He insisted on sitting between me and Lucian. Cute, right? It makes my uterus ache, having an adorable baby sandwiched between my boyfriend and me.
That or I’m getting an ulcer from the stress of this whole situation.
Lucian notices Ryan is struggling with his chicken, and without being asked, he reaches over to cut his steak.
The tender display does nothing to ease my uterus.
I’m also almost lactose intolerant, but my manners would never let me turn down a hostess’s dish. I ignore the deep womb throb, chalking it up to gas from the mac n’ cheese.
Or maybe the bites of chocolate cherry ice cream Ryan force-fed me before dinner.
Their family of four insists we stay put while they clear the table.
I’m so desperate, I’m holding my hands like earmuffs over my three-year-old nephew’s ears, whispering over his head, “What does your family think of me so far?”
He leans over Ryan and whispers back. “You mean other than when you tried to kill one of them?”
Ryan giggles. My earmuffs are clearly useless, so I drop my hands to my lap. “They say to make an impression.”
Holding a glass pitcher of water in his hand, Lucian stops mid-pour. He cooly cocks a brow. “I think you mean a good impression.”
He’s teasing, I know he is, but I’m still on edge.
“You know,” Ryan draws attention to him, and I’m grateful as I close my eyes tight for a moment. “That ice cream was delicious.” He pushes a stalk of broccoli around his plate, the only plate left on the table, giving us that wide-eyed innocent look. “I’m not complaining or nothing.”
“Anything,” Cass corrects.
His fork clatters to his plate. He folds his hands on top of the table in front of him. His serious face turns to address Lucian. “When I went with Bambi, I got two scoops.”
Ice creeps up my spine. I reach across Ryan’s plate and grab his fork, eager to change the subject. “Best not ignore this roasted broccoli, Ryan. You may have managed to get your dessert first,” I joke, smiling at the table, “but you still have to eat your veg.”
“Bambi?” Lucian furrows his brow.
And the adorable little monster completely ignores me, carrying on with his story. “Well, Mr. Loo-shan,” Ryan giggles, preferring to pronounce Lucian’s name, stressing the first part as a British bathroom joke. “We sleep in Bambi’s grandma’s old room. Her grandma died, but it’s okay. Her ghost isn’t there.”
My skin starts to crawl off my body. How do I stop this?
