The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(70)

“Violence does that for some people,” I murmur, taking a slug of my drink, then wincing.

Rose tries to take another sip of her martini, then frowns as she finds her glass empty. Ethan pours her another. “What about you, Daisy?” she asks. “Do you think Robbie would’ve minded?”

Mom taps a perfectly manicured finger on the wooden countertop. “I don’t care if he’d mind or not. He was the love of my life, and I’m just not interested in dating or getting married again. He was enough to last me a lifetime.” She glances at me. “But everyone’s different.”

I sneak a peek at Ethan, whose mouth is tight. Well. He knows how the Black Widows are. And he said he’d be patient. He sees me looking, and I give him a little smile. A muscle under his eye twitches, but he smiles back.

“I’d get married again if I didn’t have to have sex,” Iris muses in her booming voice. “I don’t want to have sex with an old man.”

“And yet here I stand, young, healthy, heterosexual and ignored,” Ethan says, bouncing a devilish eyebrow, and as usual, he gets a round of hoots and giggles from his biggest fans.

Iris cuffs him fondly. “Don’t tempt me, young man,” she says.

“If only I were twenty years younger, Ethan,” Rose giggles.

“I love older women—you should know that by now.” He kisses her cheek, slings an arm around her shoulders—she’s about a foot shorter than he is—then turns to me.

“Lucy, would you like to come up for dinner tonight?” Ethan asks, a tad abruptly, I think.

“Um…well, uh, sure,” I stammer. “That sounds nice, Eth. I’ll bring dessert.”

“Sounds great.” He packs up his bartending kit, then kisses each of the Black Widows in turn. “Good night, you Hungarian beauties,” he says.

“Good night, Ethan,” they chorus.

We all four watch him go out the back.

“Maybe you could marry Ethan, Lucy,” Rose suggests.

“Nonsense!” Iris immediately trumpets. “It’s against the law.”

“Excuse me?” I blurt. “It’s not against any law. But actually—”

“Well, God’s law,” Iris interrupts. “I was watching The Tudors on Showtime last night,” she adds, as if that explains everything.

“You get Showtime?” my mom asks. “It’s so dirty.”

“I know!” Iris agrees happily. “They showed Anne Boleyn’s mellbimbók, can you believe it?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not against the law, God’s or anybody’s,” I say mildly.

“Well, Henry VIII thought it was, Miss Smarty-Pants,” Iris says. “That’s why he divorced Catherine the Great.”

“He was a pig, for one, and two, it was Catherine of Aragon,” I correct.

“She’s so grouchy these days, Daisy,” Rose chides, as if it’s my mother’s fault.

“I know,” Mom agrees, ignoring my sigh. “What else do you watch on Showtime?”

“There’s a show called Dexter,” Rose breathes. “Iris made me watch it. Terrifying!”

Once again, I let the opportunity to say something about Ethan and me pass by, untouched. They barely notice as I pack up my stuff and head for home.

DINNER AT ETHAN’S IS FINE. Delicious, really…eggplant parm, an old favorite of mine. Salad. Red wine. A loaf of Italian, made by my own two hands this very day, served with a gorgeous garlic-and pepper-infused olive oil that I’m tempted to drink. Ethan makes short work of the blueberry crisp I made…such a simple, pleasing dessert. From the looks of it, anyway, and the way the aroma filled the kitchen.

“What’s the secret ingredient?” Ethan asks, scraping up the last bit of his second enormous helping. The boy can eat.

“I threw some cranberries in. And I ground the nutmeg myself,” I add, pleased that he noticed something special.

“Nice,” he says.

Ethan is trying hard to be normal, but like most liars or poker players, he has a tell, and the little muscle below his eye jumps with regularity. He tells me about a book Nicky and he wrote—well, Nicky dictated and Ethan typed—and I laugh as Ethan describes the many sword fights and severed limbs that inspire my nephew.

We manage to load the dishwasher under our everything is fine pretense. It’s when we sit down in the living room that things get really itchy. Ethan pours us each a second glass of wine, which, on top of the few sips of martini that I could manage, has gone to my head…not a bad thing, considering how tense I am.

“So, Lucy,” he says, sitting in the chair adjacent to the couch, where I’m clutching a pillow to my stomach and trying to look relaxed.

“Yes, Ethan,” I answer.

He looks at his hands, which are loosely clasped in front of him, then up at me. “Luce, I think we should try to move things forward a little.”

I swallow my mouthful of wine hard and fast, wincing at the slight burn. “Um…do you mean sex?”

“Not necessarily,” he says, looking at his hands again. The muscle jumps, and I resist the urge to press my fingers to that spot and ease his worry. Instead I sit tight and listen as he continues. “Obviously I noticed that you haven’t told your aunts and mother about us. Or Corinne. Or my parents, given that they asked me again today when I’m going to make an honest woman out of Parker.” He looks at me, an eyebrow bouncing up. “So.”