Collide (Collide #1)(95)

Sitting in an Italian restaurant on the Upper East Side, Emily picked up her silverware and regarded Joan Parker, Dillon's mother, from across the table. "Yes, I actually start next week."

"That's fantastic," Joan went on, lacing her fingers together. "I'm just happy that my Dillon got you the job in Greenwich Village. The schools there are wonderful." Suddenly, Joan's face morphed with displeasure. "But, I have to say, it horrifies me to think that you were actually considering a job in Bushwick of all places. It's filth, just absolute filth."

Although it didn't shock her, Emily inwardly cringed at her statement, biting back a crude reply. Joan had been known to strictly surround herself with people that sported cars that cost a small fortune. With her overly priced dyed blonde hair, her monthly Botox injections, and her fake acrylic nails, Emily wasn't sure if there was one original body part on the woman - even her breasts were questionable. The only thing about the "mannequin" that Emily knew to be real was that she was a certified uppity, gold-digging snob.

"Now, Joan, I'm sure Emily had no knowledge of the city's demographics when she submitted her resume," Dillon's father, Henry, replied. Slicking a hand through his brown hair, he leaned back in his seat and gave her a warm smile. "Am I correct or what?"

Emily nodded. "You're correct, Mr. Parker. I just visited New York State's Department of Education website and applied to anything that was available."

Grabbing for Emily's hand, Dillon shot his mother a searing look. "I take full responsibility for not warning her about certain areas. She had no idea where to look."

Emily smiled in his direction, squeezing his hand a little tighter.

"Oh, Dillon, honey, it's just like you to defend her obvious lack of doing the proper research before moving to a new state." She sweetly patted her son's back right about the same time Emily's smile fell. "That's all it would've taken, just a little bit of research on her part to avoid - "

Cutting in, Emily schooled her voice carefully, trying to keep the edge of hostility to a minimum. "In case you've forgotten, I had a lot going on. It must've slipped my mind in the middle of - I don't know - the death of my mother." Emily topped the reply off with a cute, little kink of her neck.

"Well, of course, I didn't forget that," she quickly twittered, flipping her hair behind her shoulder. "I was just simply saying - "

"Mother," Dillon said with heavy emphasis. "Drop it." He put his silverware down and rested his elbows on the table, the look in his eyes firmly stating for her to zip-a-lip.

With a gasp, Joan shifted in her seat and adjusted the collar of her tweed Chanel suit, which Emily guessed probably cost two months of her and Olivia's rent.

Sliding his arm around the back of her chair, Henry looked over to his wife. "Yes, let's drop it for now, shall we?"

Joan gave a curt nod and reached for her glass of red wine. "Fine."

Over the next half hour, Emily sat mute, trying to stir up some plan to get out of there. Sudden blindness, acute respiratory distress, hell, even cardiac arrest topped her mental list of ailments to claim as an excuse to leave. The tension in the air was as thick as hot maple syrup. The actual mind-numbing, hangover-induced migraine forging its way through her skull only intensified her need to leave. She was grateful when Dillon's father broke the silence, buffering out one of his infamous jokes involving a hooker and a chicken.

Dillon looked at Emily after the waiter cleared their plates. "Babe, you're having dessert, right?"