“That’s… nice of him.”
“It has nothing to do with being nice,” she says with a toss of her head, as if I’ve insulted him. She looks over my shoulder at the ocean behind me. “My son is anything but nice. He wouldn’t waste his time on such frivolities as finding a wife to wed, only to have to do the whole process over again if she’s poisoned. Not to mention the fact he’d have to avenge your death, which would be frightfully inconvenient.”
“Frightfully inconvenient indeed,” I repeat to myself from between clenched teeth.
She eyes me disdainfully when I take another pastry, but I’m nowhere near done, and if she says I won’t have time to eat later, I’m eating now. I take a few bites of fruit first.
“Wow, that’s the most delicious berry I’ve ever had.” The slightly tart, sweet fruit nearly bursts in my mouth. Unlike the berries we get up north, these are pink all the way through, perfectly ripe. “Won’t you have something to eat with me?” I ask sweetly, knowing full well she’s likely already eaten dry toast and a broiled grapefruit with black coffee or something.
“No, no, I don’t eat breakfast.”
A beat passes where neither of us speaks again. Just to piss her off, I take the rest of the pastries and slide them onto my plate. Her eyebrows go up but she remains silent until she can’t take it anymore.
“Has anyone shown you the home gym yet?”
“I’ve not seen much beyond these walls. I’d love to get a tour of the rest of the house.” I ignore the hidden insinuation that I need to work off these calories. “And I prefer to run outside.”
She snorts. “My dear, no one runs outside in Florida.”
“No one?” I ask her incredulously. “But it’s so much nicer running outside than in.”
“Have you been outside yet?”
She has a point.
“I’ll have to go much earlier in the morning, then,” I murmur to myself.
“I’m sure Salvatore would prefer you run inside on the treadmill, safe within the confines of our workout room.”
“I’ll see what it is that Salvatore prefers,” I murmur, not bothering to hide the steel in my voice while still speaking in a pleasant tone.
When she doesn’t get under my feathers that way, she tries another tactic. She begins to stare at my face with another look of disapproval.
“Everything okay?” I ask, as I slip another berry into my mouth.
Another frigid frown. I wonder if she smiled, actuallysmiled,what would happen. Would her face crack? The idea amuses me, but I quickly school my face so she doesn’t see the amusement.
“Darling, whatisyour skincare routine? You’ve all sorts of little red splotches on your cheeks that won’t do at all for the ceremony tonight.”
Ah, so now we’re criticizing my complexion. There is absolutely nothing wrong with my complexion.
“I—just woke up,” I say slowly. “I’m sure I still have some pink splotches from sleep.”
“No,” she says with concern. “It looks a lot more like rosacea. Tell me you have a daily SPF routine, please.”
Instead of answering, I eat another egg bite deliberately, chewing it in front of her, before I smear a liberal amount of jam on a scone. “I’ve always had a perfect complexion. I suppose I take it for granted, but I have no qualms about my skincare routine.”
I do. I absolutely do have qualms about my routine, but she doesn’t need to know that, and who asked her? Rosa would likely give me a smugI told you solook. She’s been going on about proper skincare for years.
“Well,” I backtrack sheepishly. “I use… makeup remover wipes… I do a mask once in a while.” Literally, like when I spend the night at Rosa’s.
She grimaces. “I’ll make an appointment with my facialist. Unfortunately, we won’t be able to do anything about that today, since a treatment may cause more temporary redness, and that wouldn’t do at all.”
My God. Who has afacialist?
“We’ll get you on a good routine. Fortunately, you have small pores and good genes, and it doesn’t appear you’ve done irreparable damage.”
“Thatisfortunate,” I say, wondering if she can hear the sarcasm in my tone.