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His eyes slowly rake down the length of my body, his gaze following my curves accentuated by the form-fitting fabric of my burgundy sweater dress. His perusal briefly pauses on the four-inch sliver of skin exposed mid-thigh before continuing on to my thigh high black suede boots.
“Ahem.” I clear my throat, causing Franco’s head to snap to attention. His face heats with embarrassment, flushing a shade of red so deep, it rivals that of my dress. “Can I help you?” My brow arches in anticipation.
“You’re trouble, you know that?”
“The best kind.” I shoot him a wink before heading off into the restaurant.
Inside, the click of my stiletto boots sound off against the mosaic tile, my mood souring with each echoing step.
“Hello, Ms. Burke,” an extremely put together blonde greets me with a smile. “If you’d be so kind to follow me, I’ll take you to your mother’s table.” A tight-lipped smile of my own forms, testing the limits of my sanity.
The hostess leads me through the dining room, escorting me to a round table in the center of the room where my mother is already seated. A woman sits beside her—early thirties if I had to guess. She’s pretty. Thin with sharp angular features that do little to improve her resting bitch face, but pretty, nonetheless. Her tailored pant suit is an outfit not many could pull off, but somehow it makes her look the perfect combination of powerful and feminine. She’s the kind of put together that screams competence and professionalism, though she seems better suited for a boardroom than the happily ever after business.
“Daphne,” my mother greets me with a stiff smile. One that lets me know she’s not impressed by my tardiness. “Was there traffic?”
“Nope.” I drop down into the seat on her right. “Just couldn’t get my life together in time. Apologies, mother.”
Her left eye twitches, and she looks like she’s gonna pop a blood vessel. Ignoring her, I turn my attention to the woman beside her.
“Hello.” I extend my hand in greeting. “I’m Daphne. It’s lovely to meet you.”
“Irina,” she responds, taking my hand and giving a slight shake. Irina wastes no time getting down to business, flipping open the cover to her iPad.
“What are you wearing?” my mother hisses at me.
I glance down, my brow furrowing at her question.
“Clothes?” My dress is form-fitting, but the neckline is a high turtleneck. If that wasn’t enough, an oversized Burberry scarf conceals the curve of my chest. The only visible skin is the several inches of exposed thigh between the hem of my dress and the tops of my boots.
“You look like a hooker in those boots.”
I don’t know why I’m surprised. I don’t think I’ve gone a single day escaping my mother’s criticism since elementary school. And even then, it was only because she wasn’t home enough to insult me.
My expression turns serious, my eyes locking with hers. “Yeah, but like, an expensive hooker… with business cards and who’s booked out at least six months in advance. I mean, no daughter of yours would be caught dead working a corner by the hour.”
Her signature scowl appears with record speed, and I silently commend myself on what must be a new personal best for me. It’s clear she has a retort, though she’s forced to stifle it when Irina clears her throat, effectively demanding our full attention.
“Now,” she begins, “let’s talk flowers first. Hydrangeas are very in this year. I’m thinking thousands of them. Pure white. The ceilings, the walls—all covered. We can mix in various other fillers, but they should be the focal point.”
“Actually,” I interrupt, “I like Dahlias.”
Irina makes a face like I’ve personally offended her. “They don’t really fit the vision. Plus, George Castleback’s daughter just had her wedding last season, and Dahlias were incorporated into all her centerpieces.”
My mother scoffs at this revelation, dismissing my preference with a wave of her hand. “There is no way we are copying the Castleback wedding. Your union to Lucian will be the social event of the season. Nothing but the best.”
“Good.” Irina nods her approval. “Now that that’s settled…”
We spend the next hour covering everything from bridesmaid dresses to toasting order. My opinions are taken as seriously as a mistress at a will reading. Eventually, I just shut up altogether and watch as my mother and her henchman hijack what’s supposed to be the most important day of my life.
That should probably make me sad, but honestly? This whole event doesn’t even register high enough on my priority scale to give a single flying fuck.
CHAPTER 6
NOW
NICKY
“65k wholesale is the best I can do, Mr. Conners. I’m sorry if that’s higher than you were anticipating, but we had that unfortunate crop burning incident last year which significantly depleted the supply and, well, we’ve all got to make a living.” The portly man smirks at me as he twists the edge of his mustache like some cartoon villain.
