Page 13 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
r /> Unfortunately, because my parent’s cook, Nina, is about four hundred years old, bless her, this dinner is moving at a snail’s pace. We might still be sitting here at the turn of the next century.
“That was awesome, Mrs. Carmichael. I love your cooking.”
My mother accepts Eric’s compliment with a gracious smile, as if she actually had anything to do with preparing the dinner. “Thank you, Eric. It’s so nice to see a man enjoy a meal.”
This is a not-so-subtle dig at my father, who usually takes one sniff at Nina’s bizarre Thai-Peruvian-Japanese concoctions and heads to the fridge to rummage for anything resembling real food. Eric, on the other hand, will eat anything that moves. If we were ever involved in a plane crash and became stranded on a desert island, he’d be the last one to survive, happily devouring every beetle, worm, and flying insect in sight, without a bit of squeamishness. I’m convinced he doesn’t own taste buds.
On the positive side, most of what Nina makes doesn’t include meat, which is a plus for me.
My mother turns her attention to Jamie. “James, any new special lady friends we should know about?”
My brother smiles serenely. “Not in particular. Though if you’d like to know about any new special male friends I’ve recently made, that’s quite another topic altogether.”
My mother pales. My father changes the subject so fast my head spins.
“Chloe, we’ve talked about your brother’s new case, my new case, and your mother’s new art acquisitions, and you haven’t yet said one word about yourself.”
I’m pleased my father is showing an interest in my work. This isn’t typically the situation. “Now that you mention it, I do have some important news to share.”
“Oh? And what’s that?” I don’t miss the look that passes between my parents. They lean forward eagerly. I’m touched by their attentiveness.
“Fleuret is going to be featured in People magazine!” Feeling proud of myself, waiting for their follow-up questions, I take a swig of the silky Bordeaux my mother’s served with dinner.
My mother blinks. “People magazine,” she repeats slowly, as if she’s never heard of it. “Is that the one that does all the stories about Kim Kalashian?”
My brother comes to my rescue, his voice dry as bone. “Kardashian, mother. You know, one of the most famous women in the world? And yes, that’s the magazine Chloe is referring to. It’s an incredible opportunity for her.” He turns to me with a smile. “You didn’t tell me about this today, little bug. Congrats. Good on you. When’s it happening?”
“I didn’t hear anything about this either.” Eric sounds miffed. “Does this mean you’re going to be working even longer hours now?”
I take another slug of my wine.
My father waves this unwelcome interruption off. “No, Chloe, I meant what’s happening in your personal life. When are you and this fine young man going to get married?”
Wine sprays from my mouth like a geyser, drenching my chin, my dinner plate, and the white linen tablecloth around it in a fine drizzle of red. I start coughing, and can’t stop.
Jamie laughs. My mother gasps, appalled. She leaps to her feet, calling for Nina to bring a wet cloth. My father simply stares at me with his bushy eyebrows halfway up his forehead, awaiting an answer.
Eric provides him with one before I can regain my composure. Sheepishly, he says, “I’m honored to hear you say that, sir. In fact, I’m glad you brought it up. I know Chloe and I have only been dating a short while, but we have so much in common, and we get along so well, and our values are so similar . . .” He clears his throat, shifting his weight in his chair.
I turn to him slowly, my eyes wide open. I squeeze his hand so tightly I must be cutting off the blood flow to his fingers. He smiles at me, and pats my hand. I realize he’s mistaken my blossoming horror for overwhelming emotion.
“Well, if things keep going in the direction they’re going, sir, I think we’ll have an announcement to make quite soon. With your blessing, of course,” he hastens to add.
My mother instantly forgets about Nina and the cloth. She clutches her pearls. Her cry of joy, though I’m not certain I’ve ever heard it before, is genuine. My father relaxes back into his chair and folds his hands over his belly, beaming like a happy Buddha. My brother slowly sets his coffee on the table, his face impassive, watching me carefully.
As for me? I burn. I smoke. I writhe in impotent fury, gritting my teeth so hard they’re in danger of shattering.
No one has asked my opinion on the subject of marriage to Eric, most importantly the man himself. Almost worse is the glaring reality that, except for my brother, everyone in this room is convinced I’m wasting my time on my silly little flower hobby, and I should hurry up and get down to the real work of landing myself a husband before I turn into an unmarryable spinster. And lucky me, lo and behold! A gallant suitor has just offered his hand—for my father’s approval.
I’m living in a Jane Austen novel.
It goes from bad to worse.
“Oh, darling, we’re so pleased!” My mother hastens to Eric and grips his shoulder, as if he might change his mind and she’ll be forced to hold him against his chair. “You certainly had to kiss your share of frogs, Chloe, but now that you’ve found your—”
“Prince Charming?” Jamie interrupts my mother’s gushings with a tone just as pointed as his look. Before I can banish it, the image of a Viking god flashes before my eyes, a god with piercing golden eyes and a lion’s mane of hair, thundering bare chested over a battlefield on a stallion.
I’ve been watching way too much HBO.
