Page 52 of Hard Limits

“How lovely that you could join us tonight,” Carissa said to Meera.

“It’s a pleasure,” she lied.

“Where are you from, Meena?” Sophie asked.

“Massachusetts.”

“No, I mean before that. Like, are you Indian?”

For fuck’s sake. Had Carissa schooled her assistant in the art of microaggression, or did it come naturally?

“I was born and raised in the United States of America.” Meera smiled, but not with her usual sweetness. “I love your hair. Did you know that redheads originated in Central Asia?”

“Uh, no?”

“The colour is down to a mutation on the MC1R gene. Instead of protection from the sun, you got freckles and those stunning copper locks.”

“Really?”

“Sometimes our flaws make us beautiful.”

Sophie decided to keep her mouth shut at that point. A wise decision. But Carissa just had to carry on.

“Have you been to this restaurant before?” she asked Meera.

“No.”

“I’m always trying to get Braxton to eat less meat. We all have to play our part in helping the environment.”

“Yes, absolutely. So we’d better avoid the avocados. Did you know that a single avocado takes between thirty and sixty gallons of water to grow? And when they’re cultivated in dry places like Chile, that leads to illegal extraction of water from rivers and damages the local ecosystem.” Meera ran her finger down the menu. “We shouldn’t have the lettuce either—that’s another thirsty plant. The raspberries and blueberries are also a ‘no.’ At this time of year, they’ve been flown in from overseas, so they’ll have a huge carbon footprint. Mushrooms require a considerable amount of energy to produce the warm temperatures they thrive in, plus they emit carbon dioxide. Cocoa contributes to deforestation, and as for cashews? Oh, dear. Not only are they a low-yield crop, but their hard shells contain a caustic oil that can burn the skin. If that leaks into the environment during processing, well, that’s a bad thing. I’m going to have the Coquilles Saint-Jacques. How about you?”

“Did you know Meera has a degree in environmental science from Harvard?” Brax asked.

If Carissa did know, she’d clearly forgotten. Her lips pressed together in a thin line, and he knew she was annoyed. Good. She was the one who’d suggested this stupid dinner. He could have been eating takeout and painting another wall right now.

“I’ll have the vegan beefsteak.”

“I guess it’s your choice, but do you know how many kilowatts go into processing mycoprotein? The fungus also feeds on sugar, which requires fertiliser to grow.”

When the waiter came, Carissa ordered Coquilles Saint-Jacques in a terrible French accent. A long time had passed since Brax had seen her on the back foot, and it was a joy to behold. The waiter’s smirk when Carissa told him he had a lovely ass instead of thanking him very much was the frosting on the cake. She always got the pronunciation of “beaucoup” and “beau cul” confused.

And then Meera, his beautiful Meera, surprised him again, but in a good way.

“Ah, bonsoir. Je voudrais la Coquilles Saint-Jacques accompagnée de légumes, s’il vous plaît.”

Her accent was perfect, her delivery flawless. She spoke French? The waiter gave her a warm smile as he noted down the order.

“Vous parlez français?” Brax asked Meera after the waiter had taken his order. “Tu ne l’as jamais mentionné.”

“J’ai passé six mois à Paris dans le cadre d’un programme lycée ‘études à l’étranger’. Et vous?”

She’d spent six months in Paris? Brax had never participated in a “study abroad” programme, but he was a quarter French and fluent in the language, thanks to his paternal grand-père. That bâtard had refused to speak English to his young grandson, so Brax had been left with no choice but to learn. Carissa, on the other hand, could manage restaurant French and shopping French—badly—but that was all.

“Je suis un quart français.” And Carissa was getting more and more peeved because she couldn’t understand the conversation. “Ne vous inquiétez pas pour ma femme. Elle fait just semblant de parler français.”

“Ah, c’est pourquoi elle a complimenté l’arrière du serveur.”

Brax barely kept the smile off his face. This woman was on his wavelength in a way he’d never felt before. He loved the new, feisty Meera. Unfortunately. If time travel existed, he’d sell his soul to turn back the clock and tear up that fucking prenup.

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