“Excuse me?” she says, and her face does this thing where it, like, morphs. One minute she looks all graceful and gracious and gorgeous, and the next her eyes narrow, her face contorts, and the pretty little thing looks almost troll-like. Oh, wow.
I tip some more of the delicious drink into my cup and sip, watching the scene in front of me play out like I’m watching Shakespeare in the park. I should rummage through his cabinets and scrounge up some cheese and crackers, maybe pop some popcorn.
“We had plans!” she says.
Oopsie.
“Ah, right. I’m sorry about that, I’ve made a mistake and have other obligations this evening,” he says, taking her by the elbow. I sip my drink, lean back against the bar and cross my ankles, then spy a little bowl of salted nuts. I lean over and pop a fistful in my mouth. Oh, these are the good kind. No peanuts.
She halts in the doorway and plants her hands on her hips.
“My parents are waiting for us!”
Oof. Parents. That’s a complication, I think, picking out the hazelnuts.
He runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up all over the place. He’d look boyish, if not for that firm jaw and the scruff of his beard that’s all man.
“Excuse me,” he says. “Again, my apologies. I’ve had a long day and didn’t know I’d be given custody of my niece. Samantha here has come to help me get her settled in.”
Elise scrunches up her nose even more, looking like a putty-colored pig. I shiver and pick out all the pecans, savoring every buttery, salty one of them, and follow them with another swig of the sweet ambrosia.
“So she’s your… nanny? Because of that child?”
“Very much not the nanny,” I say. Why does everyone keep trying to force that on me?
She whips her head around to look at me. “I wasn’t speaking to you. Weren’t you ever taught it’s rude to address someone out of turn?”
I snort. “Oh, right, I forgot. This is the nineteenth century, and I should know my place.”
“Precisely.”
I don’t know if it’s the insane day I’ve had, the decadent alcohol that’s got to be like one hundred ten proof coursing through my veins, or the fact that I just made out with this guy and I’m not exactly ready to give him up that easily, but I’ve had enough of her high-handed bullshit. I shake my head and stalk toward her.
“Ah, Elise, you’re one of those, aren’t you?”
She blinks. “Those?”
“Yes, those, one of those who thinks that the numbers in their bank account or the clothing they wear makes them somehow better than everyone else.”
She doesn’t contradict me. The bitch actually believes this to be true.
“So tell me, Elise, who are you?” I ask. I make a show of letting my eyes rove over her clothes. Time to put my detective skills to good use. “Well-dressed, but with those fuck-me heels, I’d think you’re looking to get laid.” I tip my head to the side, mimicking her. “A paid escort, perhaps?” I wink lasciviously at Miguel. “Wouldn’t put it past you, big guy. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am. Seems the tabloids get it right every once in a while, eh?”
“Samantha,” Miguel growls, but I think I see a twinkle in his eyes.
Elise’s jaw drops open. “You little bitch.”
“That’s enough.” Miguel’s tone’s implacable as he tugs Elise toward the door.
“I’m just getting started, though,” I say on a whine.
He points to the door. “You, out.” Elise stalks with him on her heels as he calls to me over his shoulder, “And you, stay put and stop drinking that fucking amaretto before you make yourself sick.”
Amaretto. Oooh. I like the sound of that. Amaretto sounds like ambrosia, a gift from the gods.
Funny that he thinks he can boss me around. Don’t remember getting a paycheck from him, so as he turns the corner to escort her out of the house, I pour myself another shot. Who gave him the right to tell me what to do?
“The amaretto pairs perfectly with the salty decadence of the pecans,” I say to myself in the haughty tone one might use on a high-end cooking show. “One might also consider imported cheese, such as a rich Manchego, or perhaps a creamy Stilton from the northernmost parts of England, to pair with this delicious liqueur.”
I hear muffled words in a high-pitched voice followed by Miguel’s deeper register, then the door opens and slams a lot harder than it should. I polish off my amaretto and pour myself a fourth. It’s delicious, I’m stressed, and I’m starving.
“I thought I told you no more,” he growls behind me. “What the fuck are you doing?”
I turn to him, and for one delicious moment, there’s three of him, and I imagine what it would be like to be bedded by all of them at once. One licking my breasts while the other fingers my pussy, and the third puts me over his knee—