Page 52 of Don’t Go Stealing My Heart

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Clementine had assumed rich people were cold and harsh, tough on their kids and judgmental. Easier than believing they had money and happiness. The belief had made stealing from the upper class easier and erased her guilt if it snuck up. She’d never expected such fondness at Jack’s dinner table.

“You should have seen him as a child,” Sylvia gushed to Clementine. “The Pied Piper of Whichway, always humming. He attracted every hurt animal in a five-mile radius, turned half our kitchen into an infirmary.”

Jack swallowed a forkful of mashed potatoes. “You’re exaggerating.”

“You had three in there one day, that bird with its damaged wing, the blind frog that hopped into the walls, and that awful lizard.”

“If I didn’t take them in, they would have died.”

“Feeding that slimy thing worms on my kitchen counter almost killed me.” Affection punctuated her chiding.

“So dramatic, Mother. And salamanders aren’t slimy. They’re beautiful.” Jack placed his hand on Clementine’s knee and leaned closer, feigning a whisper everyone could hear. “She refuses to go inside my shelter.”

Sylvia wrinkled her nose. “I’ve tried. Really, I have. I just can’t do scaly creatures.”

“I love it,” Chloe boasted. “They don’t scare me.”

Jack grinned across the table at his sister. “As long as none of them dress like clowns.”

Chloe scowled at him, their mother laughed, and Clementine absorbed as much of this normal family banter as she could.

Maxwell David the Second hadn’t been well enough to join them for dinner, but everyone seemed in good spirits. Used to the hand they’d been dealt, at least. Clementine hadn’t fully acclimated to the tall ceilings and elegant china, but the Davids couldn’t have been further from the money hungry tyrants she’d imagined.

“How long are you in Whichway?” Sylvia asked her.

A clump of chewed carrots lodged in Clementine’s throat. She glanced at Jack. It was a reflex. Look at him. Search him out. How long do you want me here? The way his eyes shone, she wondered if he could read her mind. “At least until the festival is over,” she said.

Sylvia’s face brightened. “At least?”

“Things are up in the air.”

“Is your job flexible?” Sylvia placed her knife and fork on her empty plate, the ends lined up neatly. Lucien had taught Clementine to do that. Keep her cutlery tidy. Big fork for the main course. Little fork for salad. All other spoons and forks memorized in case a mark took her to a fancy restaurant.

He hadn’t taught her how to navigate affections for a man, though. How to discuss her fictitious job with her date’s parents.

Colonel Blue retched by Jack’s feet, probably because Jack had been feeding the old dog chicken. He pushed his chair back to comfort the pup, while Chloe and Sylvia cooed from their seats. Clementine exhaled during the distraction, searched the room for a plausible job reply, but all she saw was artwork accenting the maroon walls: a Chagall, a prehistoric mask, and something modern with bold slashes of yellow she didn’t recognize. No Van Gogh, thank God.

She hadn’t seen it yet, hoped she wouldn’t encounter the painting before she’d decided what to do. Right now she was happy. Right now she had Jack and the memory of his kisses.

Right now she didn’t want to lie to his mother about her job.

When old Blue settled by Jack’s feet, Sylvia returned her attention to Clementine. “You were saying about your work?”

The chicken she’d eaten churned. She fisted the napkin on her lap.

“She can work remotely,” Jack said as he stood. “And I’d like to show her the sound room, if you’ll excuse us.”

“Can I come?” Chloe’s words rushed out as she tossed her napkin on her plate.

“Not this time, Ladybug.”

“But I wanna show Clementine the gold record.”

“And I’d like an hour alone with my date.”

His sister slumped and noisily flipped her fork.