None of the little Crowne children smiled. I wondered if the artist meant to capture that, their displaced love.
“You’re the one who should hate me the most,” she said softly.
I turned back. “I don’t hate you, Lottie.”
Her brown eyes found mine. “You will.”
Twenty-One
GRAY
“We should really wait for Lottie to do the toast.” Lynette shivered on the terrace—everyone shivered on the terrace.
But my grandfather insisted on having the toast out here after dinner, to watch the sunset.
“Great,” Gemma gritted. “I really wanted frostbite for Christmas.”
“Grayson,” Lynette continued. “Where is she?”
Everyone looked to me, as if I ha
d an answer.
I should, I guess—I was technically her husband.
I rubbed my neck. “Uh…”
Three seats at dinner had been empty. Lottie, Jack, and Josephine’s.
“I don’t think she’s feeling well,” Story said.
Lynette tilted her head. “And how would you know?”
Even I was curious to the answer.
Story’s lips parted. “I…ran into her in the bathroom earlier.”
So we descended back into silence. Gemma looked at her phone, hand shaking with the cold. The soft rustling filled the air, expensive satin gowns brushed across the cobblestone as all the women moved back and forth, trying to stay warm. Even my grandfather wasn’t immune, foot tapping.
“Honestly,” my mother said. “Are they brewing the champagne?”
“Westley.” Lynette wiggled her hand to her son. “Keep your mother warm.”
Story was alone, across the terrace, and West eyed her, yet went to his mother.
Small fir trees lined the terrace, their lights twinkling in the twilight. Snowflakes fell, illumined by a dusky sunset over the beach.
Story was alone…
Fuck it.
West’s stare followed me across the cobblestone as I went to stand next to Story.
“Little wife.”
Story stiffened, looked left and right. I hated that, the way her eyes widened and her body froze.
“I’m not doing anything, Snitch,” I said. “Just standing next to you. You said you wanted to talk.”