Maddie watches her aunt leave with an expression that’s half love and half murder. “Yes. She never falls asleep behind the wheel.”
“I meant will she be able to find her way home?”
Maddie looks at me like I’ve been smoking something funny.
“Oh, don’t worry, Mason,” says Bettina, sidling up to me and taking my arm. “Waldine’s perfectly capable of driving home. Now, is that rumor true I heard about the Pioneers getting new uniforms? Because I, for one, happen to favor the silver and black.”
I’m engulfed in a cloud of cinnamon and vanilla perfume. She smells like a cookie. I’m sure that’s as calculated as everything else about her.
She leads me away from Maddie and Robert, who’s smiling at Maddie like he knows what color panties she’s wearing.
Which he probably does.
Never in a million years would I have thought I’d be jealous of a robot, but here we fucking are.
12
Maddie
Men are imbeciles.
After stopping to sign a few autographs outside church, Mason swaggers over to his car with Bettina hanging from his arm like a leech. Honestly, I’d like to give him a smack for being such a cliché. But the man is only my client, not my friend, so I need to keep it professional. I’ll just observe the two of them at brunch and give him my coaching feedback later.
If I don’t stab Bettina in the eyeball with a fork first.
When the three of us approach the car, I hop into the front passenger seat without being asked. Dick turns to me, startled.
“What—”
He spots Bettina slithering into the back seat next to Mason, and blinks.
“Mason made a new friend,” I say brightly. “We’re all going to brunch.”
Dick takes a long time examining my expression before breaking into a grin. “Well, ain’t that cozy.” He starts the car, smirking. “Where to?”
“Garwood’s,” says Mason.
At the same time, Bettina says, “The Four Seasons.”
Then she pauses, leaning toward Mason boobs first while toying with a strand of her hair. Another round of furious lash batting commences. “I mean, of course, whatever you prefer, Mason. That other place just seems a little pedestrian for you.”
Ooh, look who’s breaking out the big words. I’d guess she’d been dating a professor, but they don’t make enough money.
Mason glances at me, his expression impassive. After a moment, he says, “The Four Seasons it is.”
By the time we get there, Bettina’s endless chatter has given me a headache. All Mason has to do to keep the conversation going is insert a grunt here and there.
Then again, it’s not her conversation he’s interested in.
Dick pulls to a stop in front of the valet stand at the hotel. We all exit the car and head inside.
Then the real torture begins.
I try to stay discreetly behind them, but Mason turns and frowns at me, jerking his head for me to keep up as the hostess leads us to our table. I suppose he’s accustomed to having a pair of female bookends, but I’m uncomfortable as the third wheel.
Especially because of all the attention he’s getting.
Heads swivel as we walk by. Whispers rise in our wake. Eyes are drawn to him like moths to flame, then to Bettina in all her blonde, busty glory. Then to me, for a brief, dismissive look—is that his assistant?—then back to the two of them.
I’m the ugly step-sister in this pretty little tableau.
I’d like to say I don’t care, but by the time we sit down, my cheeks are burning.
Just once in my life, I want a man to look at me the way they all look at Bettina.
As soon as the waiter leaves with our drink orders, Mason asks me, “You okay?”
“Oh, she’s just fine and dandy, aren’t you Maddie?” Bettina sends a lethal smile in my direction that says Just shut up and sit there while I work my magic.
Reaching for the bread basket in the center of the table, I say, “Yes, thank you. Muffin?”
When I hold out the basket, she recoils from it like it’s filled with snakes.
“Carbs? God, no.”
Some people are so predictable.
I select the thickest, fluffiest candidate from the various scones and muffins in the basket, then slather butter over every inch of it while Bettina watches, scandalized. When I tear off a bite and pop it into my mouth, she nearly faints in horror.
“Have you girls known each other long?” asks Mason, watching me chew with hooded eyes.
Already bored with the subject, Bettina flicks her hair over her shoulder. “We went to the same high school. What was it you were voted senior year, Maddie? Most Likely to Remain a Virgin Until Marriage?”
And the claws are out. “You’re thinking of Darcy Johnson. I was Most Likely to Succeed. And you were Most Likely to Walk Into a Glass Door, if I recall correctly?”
Bettina’s smile doesn’t waver. She won’t be thrown off by the likes of me.
“Most Beautiful,” she purrs. “And homecoming queen, of course.”
“That’s right,” I say, chewing thoughtfully. “And a week after graduation is when you married that plastic surgeon, Mervyn—”
“Marvin,” she cuts in, her voice more brittle.
“—Dingleberry?”
“Dinkelman.”
“Yes, now I remember. I was so sorry to hear he passed away only six months after the wedding.”
“Eight,” she says flatly, now regarding me with open hostility.
Marvin Dinkelman dropped dead of a massive stroke, but not before gifting his bride with a ginormous pair of new boobs and a trust fund.
Bettina was eighteen. He was seventy-four.
Suffice it to say, she didn’t spend much time in mourning.
“That must’ve been tough for you,” says Mason with a straight face.
God bless him, there’s hope for the man yet.
But Bettina, being Bettina, fails to detect the bone dry sarcasm in Mason’s voice. She takes his statement and runs with it, launching into a long and detailed account of her grief. It leaves me cross-eyed and Mason looking like he’d give his kingdom for the sudden arrival of a comet to demolish the restaurant and everything in it.
The waiter returns with our drinks. Bettina only stops talking about herself long enough to give him her food order, then goes right back to it.
By the time my Eggs Benedict arrives ten minutes later, I need a break or my brain will implode. I take a few half-hearted bites, then excuse myself and head to the ladies’ room.
Once there, I take my sweet time enjoying the quiet. I use the toilet and wash my hands, drying them on the soft towels stacked in a pyramid between the sinks. I check my bun for any flyaways, clean my glasses, and freshen my lipstick.
Just as I’m taking a deep breath and reminding my reflection not to make gagging noises when Mason asks Bettina back to his house, Mason bursts in, glowering.
He skids to a stop at the end of the sinks and stares at me accusingly.
I say, “Wrong room, superstar. Note the lack of urinals.”
“I came to check to make sure you weren’t climbing out a window. You’ve been gone forever!”