Page 55 of Iris
“Oh, well…” Mom hovers, clearly torn. “I’d love to come but the garden needs work and if there are any official letters, I should be here.”
“Mari will keep me on the straight and narrow,” I say, not really meaning it. “And we have one of the servants as a chaperone.”
Mom’s face brightens. “A servant, oh, yes, that looks good.”
“There are too many damn people in this room,” Heath says, pushing through and storming off.
I kiss Mom’s cheek, shove my feet into my shoes, and hurry out to meet Mari.
“What do you think of these, Reece? Mari?” I spin and stomp down, the patent leather platform heel is ridiculous.
“If they had some wheels…” Reece pulls out his phone and pops out the stylus, making a note.
The phone’s fairly new, but I imagine that Penrith’s a generous boss.
He and his brother, along with some others, might work for us now, and for the foreseeable future, but I know who’s footing the bill and where they’ll end up returning to.
Mari grins, wearing outrageous glitter stilettos in a dark purple. “I’m not sure wheels are what the Monarch’s going to want.”
He frowns. “I was thinking more for kids, Ma—Miss Gardener.”
And I feel bad about pointing that out to him, even though following those rules will protect him.
He’s a servant, and a fall from any kind of grace would be catastrophic.
“Vi would love those shoes, Mari.” I look at them, my heart pulling and I grab my phone and shoot her a text.
While I’m looking and waiting, I can’t help noticing the only other person who’s texted is Quinn. She’s asking about the meeting and what it’s about, but I don’t know because Killian hasn’t called or texted.
When he tapped phones, I should have gotten his number, too, but he must have a block on his number.
So I can’t find out.
I shove the frustration down and change out of the hyper wanna be cool shoes and into my sneakers, and sweep up the bag of the nice shoes I bought.
“Violet hates shoes like this and she’s in her love nest with Stephan.” Marigold does the same, as Reece writes furiously on his phone.
I shudder. “Sounds revolting.”
“Don’t be jealous,” Mari says.
“I’m not. I don’t want to be mated to a society Alpha. Or mated at all.” Fat lot of good complaining will do. “Let’s go find a dress and then get a soda.”
We step out into the late afternoon, long shadows that tell of the coming night start to paint the pretty, cobbled street.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the loser sisters.”
Crap. I spin and put a hand to my hip and toss my hair. “Isn’t it early for the wicked witch of Sabine to make an appearance, and here I am without any cranberry juice. I’d ask how you are, Alicia, but from your smug face, I’m thinking you just fed on the blood of the young.”
The beautiful blonde, who I’m pretty sure spends hours in front of her mirror each morning putting on a face that appears only lightly touched by makeup, turns a mottled red.
She’s wearing her signature white and silver, only her shoes, bag and tiny black cardigan are an ode to the Season.
If she wasn’t such a horrible person, I’d be impressed that a girl a little older than me can pull off such a staid style and make it sweetly sensual.
If I was into such things.
Which I’m not, at all.
