About That Night. Beth Andrews
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corkscrew curls bouncing with the movement. “Is that the proper plural form of quiche? Or is it one of those words like deer or fish?”
It took him a moment to realize she was talking about the food on her tray. And that her question hadn’t been rhetorical.
“I think either form is correct,” he said.
“But you don’t know for sure. What if it’s one of the questions on the SATs? I mean, I doubt it, but you never know. Leighann—my best friend—took them last fall, even though you really don’t need to take them until the spring of your junior year, but she’s always trying to be The First, you know? Which is why I think she finally gave in and slept with her boyfriend, so she’d be the first of our group to lose her virginity.”
C.J. blinked. Blinked again. “Uh...”
“My stepmom says it’s because deep down, Leighann’s insecure, and she overcompensates by acting overly confident. Like men with little—”
“I hope like hell you’re about to say wallets,” C.J. said quickly. “Or brains.”
“No,” she said slowly. “But if it’ll make you feel better, I can just say men who aren’t quite as endowed—”
“No. That doesn’t make me feel better at all. How about we skip that part in its entirety?”
She lifted a shoulder, then switched the tray to her other hand. “Anyway, Leighann said there were a ton of arbitrary questions on the SATs, most of them not having to do with real life at all. What if the plural form of weird words is one of them?”
“Sorry, darlin’. Quiche isn’t exactly a word I use very often. In any form.”
She nodded sagely. “That’s good. They’re pies of death, if you think about it. All those eggs. And cream. And cheese. Really, it’s a heart attack waiting to happen. Or at least, high-cholesterol levels. Plus, it’s not natural—humans eating products made from cow’s milk. Except I’m not allowed to—” she made air quotes with one hand “—preach about my personal views to guests.” Another set of air quotes as if closing what must have been a direct order from her supervisor. “So I’ll just say I’m sure these appetizers are extremely delicious. At least, I’m guessing they are. I wouldn’t know personally, as I don’t eat any animal products.” She frowned. “Usually. And, best of all, you don’t need a fork to eat them. They’re small enough to just pop into your mouth.”
She lifted the tray higher, obviously expecting him to do just that.
How she managed to get so many words out with so little breath was beyond C.J. But get them out she did, all the while holding his gaze innocently.
Amazing.
Back in Houston, people treated him with a certain...reverence. Because of his father’s last name, his father’s money. The old man had always eaten it up. Had loved having servants fawn all over him, unable to make eye contact, bowing and scraping as if it was all nothing less than expected. Deserved.
But Clint’s ego was just fine. It didn’t need to be stroked.
No matter what Kane said.
“I don’t need the fork to eat. I wanted to use it to stab my eyes out.” He nodded toward the dance floor where his mother gave a loud whoop and threw her arms in the air, lifting the hem of her short dress so high C.J. quickly averted his gaze lest he see parts no one but Gwen’s gynecologist should see. “Anything sharp and pointy will do.”
The waitress followed his gaze. “Yes. That is disturbing.” She shifted the tray to her hip. Studied him closely. “Is she your date?”
He flinched, but he couldn’t blame the kid for thinking Gwen was younger than her actual age. She saw her plastic surgeon more often than her own sons. “My mother.”
“Oh.” Then she shocked the hell out of C.J. by giving his forearm a quick squeeze. “I’m sorry.”
He raised an eyebrow as amusement flowed through him. Not many felt sorry for him. He was a Bartasavich, after all. People usually envied him—his looks, his money, his business acumen.
He nodded his thanks. “Wish I could say you get used to it, but that’d be a lie.”
His mother caused drama wherever she went. If C.J. had to guess, he’d say tonight’s show was all for his father’s benefit. But Senior was still staring at Carrie. C.J. doubted Senior even knew what Gwen, the first in a long line of Mrs. Bartasaviches, was doing. How hard she was trying to prove she was over him.
How hard she was trying to make the old man jealous.
The waitress watched his mother do a pelvic thrust that should have been illegal, then bend at the waist, stick her ass in the air and shake it.
The waitress scrunched up her face. “Eww. Mothers should never twerk. Something like that could scar a person for life. Have you tried therapy? It might help.”
He chuckled, surprised he could laugh at this. “After tonight, I just might need it.”
He helped himself to a couple of the quiches. Pie of death or not, he was hungry. He’d worked through lunch and hadn’t bothered with dinner before catching his flight to Pittsburgh.
He was still chewing the first one when Kane approached him. As they had so many times throughout their lives, they sized each other up. There’d been a time when C.J. could read every thought in Kane’s head. When he’d known his little brother’s strengths and weaknesses as well as his own.
Those days were long gone, killed by Kane’s drug addiction and subsequent stint in the army. Kane was now clean and sober—had been for years—and even owned a local bar called O’Riley’s. But there was too much hostility, too much anger to ever mend the bond that had been broken between them. There were days C.J. could admit he regretted that. That he missed his brother.
But he’d be damned before he’d ever say it out loud.
“Estelle said you were here,” Kane said, his expression closed, his eyes hooded. “I’m surprised you could tear yourself away from your desk.”
Not as surprised as C.J. had been to hear about his brother’s engagement. He hadn’t known Kane and the redheaded ER nurse he’d gotten involved with last year were that serious, until Estelle had told him they were engaged as she’d hand delivered his invitation to this little soiree.
Kane had spent the past twelve years doing his best to avoid any ties whatsoever to anyone—except Estelle. What the hell made him think he was ready to commit to one woman?
“I wouldn’t have disappointed Estelle,” C.J. said, eating the second quiche. “Or miss the chance to get to know your fiancée better.” He wiped his hands on a paper napkin and crumpled it in his hand as he scanned the ballroom. Spotting his future sister-in-law across the room, laughing at something a pretty, very pregnant blonde said, he sent Kane a grin. “Charlotte seems like a nice woman. A smart woman. Too good for the likes of you. I’ll have to do my best to make sure she realizes that before she makes the biggest mistake of her life and goes through with this marriage.”
“I think you’re safe,” the waitress told Kane. “I mean, look at you.” She swept her hand up and down in front of him. “You’re gorgeous. And you have that whole bad-boy vibe going on, which most women find irresistible but, personally, I don’t get. No offense or anything.”
“None taken,” Kane said, looking torn between amusement and horror at the girl’s assessment of him.
“Yes, my brother sure is a fine catch.” As long as a woman didn’t mind being tied to an ex-addict with a bad attitude and a ton of emotional baggage. “He’s a real prince among men. All the women fall for that pretty face. Want to smooth out those rough edges.”
Kane’s mouth thinned. He made a show of looking around. “Couldn’t find a date, Junior? All the big-haired,