Page 267 of A Vicious Love

Sabine’s daughter, Mila stood beside me with wet curls stuck to her cheeks and a suspicious expression.

“What?” I asked.

“You’re staring.”

“Yes.”

“At Aunt Sienna.” Mila looked at me as if deciding whether I was stupid or merely tall. “You’re weird.”

She ran back toward Sienna, clearly to report me.

Adrian appeared at my left with a glass.

His grin came fast. Too comfortable now. I had made the mistake of being useful at breakfast, and Bellemere men adjusted to usefulness the way stray dogs adjusted to meat.

Julian joined us, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Beside him stood two brothers-in-law: Sabine’s husband, Henri, and sunburned already, and Liora’s husband.

“Ready for the sandwich competition Crow?” Adrian asked.

I answered by giving the men a look to say they should think longer before speaking to me. All I wanted was one cigarette and peace.

“Bellemere lake days are highly competitive.” Julian’s expression grew serious. “The sandwiches matter.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

He meant that.

“We have to guess the filling.” Henri nodded solemnly. “Last year there was an argument over the difference between smoked trout and smoked salmon.”

“Sienna’s allergic to fish.” How the fuck could they let her eat mystery sandwiches. Will she die. Will she not die. What a great family fucking game.

“Sienna only eats off the blue plates.” Adrian pointed toward the long table where five older women and two cousins stood around covered trays.

Julian checked his watch. “Sandwich identification. Guests taste one triangle from each platter, then guess the filling and the herb butter. Points given for full accuracy.”

“Why?”

“Tradition. And to the loser is to be paired with mother for charades.”

All four men looked toward the terrace where Sienna’s mother stood, speaking to Aunt Mirelle with a fan in one hand.

I looked at them for a long second. “Your family requires psychiatric assistance.”

“Sienna likes lake day,” Julian said.

That was a filthy tactic.

I looked back at her.

Sienna sat now on the edge of a picnic blanket near the children, the white wrap spread over her thighs, black bikini visible beneath sheer fabric. Mila leaned against one side of her, Nell against the other, both speaking at once. Sienna listened as if every word deserved her full attention.

Still, I refused participation on the reasonable grounds that I was a grown man. I would not guess what was going into my mouth. Sienna heard this from the blanket and gave me one look.

I participated under protest, which meant the Bellemeres took actual fucking notes while I stood beneath a striped umbrella beside a tasting table arranged with little cards, pencils, glass domes. The children had been barred from formal scoring after Nell wrote “green mud” beside several samples and declared herself the winner. The adult round began with cucumber, mint, and some pale cheese thing that offended me by existing.

Sienna reached for the first blue plate, and I stopped her wrist before the sandwich reached her mouth.

She blinked up at me. “Jamison, it’s from my plate.”