Tilda
We smelled it before we heard it. Dinner, that is. Which is really saying something because the dinner bell? Yeah, that turned out to be a train horn. Which, as it turns out, is exactly what I needed to bring me back to my senses. Cooper St. James is a next level manipulator. Oh, I knew he was good, but that whole thing with his nephew and the rooms and the cat? That took some real planning.
He wouldn’t be the first man to slip a kid a twenty and sucker him into playing on the heart strings of some woman to soften her up. Or to orchestrate a scenario to show her the guy not only likes kids, but kittens to boot, and bam. Defenses down, and she’s ripe for the manipulating.
I put one last pin in my hair and step back to study the effect. The neckline of the dress pretty much demands a messy bun. With the high material behind my neck giving way to a dramatic plunge in front, the blue dress is drama and strength and femininity all rolled into one. Some nude heels, a simple set of glittery earrings, and I’m ready.
Coop and Owen are waiting for me when I step out of the room. Coop, fully in character, smiles appreciatively and offers me his arm. I’m not ready to give him any more ground just yet, so I walk past and start down the stairs.
I had a brief moment of weakness earlier with the kids and the kitten, but I came to my senses five minutes after they left. It’s all too convenient to be real. And as they say, if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it’s probably a womanizer. What he doesn’t realize is that I’ve already had experience with his kind so I’m armed and ready to beat him at his own game.
First, though, I need some of whatever smells so mind-bendingly delicious.
As we come down the final flight of stairs, I take in the scene below us. The dining room sits to the far left of the great room, its expanse filled with a table that could’ve been hewn from any of the trees outside. Comfortable chairs covered in burgundy line it on either side, while down the middle a long trail of woven fur branches, floating candles in shallow bowls, glittery pinecones, and elegant ornaments create a festive air.
Owen trots ahead when I feel Coop’s breath behind my left earlobe. It surprises me so much I pause mid step.
“You look beautiful, Flinch. Whoever made that dress deserves a raise.”
His lips don’t touch my skin, yet my brain pictures it easily. In fact, despite the fact that he hasn’t touched me at all, goosebumps race across my skin. I tell myself it’s a biological response. Any warm breath on that sensitive spot would equal the same effect. Needing to believe that, I step away from him and make a tsking sound. “Please tell me that’s not your best shot, St. Lames. I thought you were a legend with the ladies. That’s some pretty basic moves. Looks like you better get used to your office, because five is all mine.”
With that I skip down the remaining stairs.
Ms. Danksbury chats with two other couples, one younger than us, it appears, and another that looks to be middle aged. As we approach, they all turn to study us. “And here they are! Now we’re complete. Please, Tilda, Cooper, Owen, you’re just in time.”
As we take our seats, Ms. Danksbury makes brief but descriptive introductions. Across from us, Alan and Fran Marchetti, both from Colorado Springs and apparently in the furniture business, nod. How she says the word “furniture” makes me pretty certain she means anything but. Alan slips us a business card while Fran tucks a fork up her sleeve. To my left, the younger couple, Isaac and Laurel Garberet, huddle together and chat in hushed whispers while Ms. Danksbury informs us that they sold everything to explore the country in their renovated van. They glance up long enough to wave, then go right back to cuddling.
Ms. Danksbury steps over to a connecting door, peeks her head through, and calls, “Seamus, darling, if you would be so kind?”
Half a dozen servers emerge led by an elderly man who looks more like he spent his life singing sea shanties than gracing dining halls. They all carry trays covered with silver domes on their shoulders. She calls out the names of dishes I’ve never tasted as they lay out an incredible feast on buffets lining the walls. “Lebanese kibbeh pie, hangikjöt courtesy of Iceland, bhortas from Bangladesh, Guatemalan Güisquil Chilaquilas, African loubia…”
After a while, I barely listen, too distracted by the spices wafting from savory pies, roasted vegetable dishes, and buttery seasoned breads. It’s entirely too much food for seven people. As if reading my mind, Ms. Danksbury takes her seat and says, “Don’t let the volume of food disturb you. As our guests, you’ll serve yourselves first, then my staff will celebrate, as well. So, please, enjoy.”
As we’re filling our plates, I take time to study the other couples, mainly to keep me from having to talk to Coop. Alan and Fran have begun dickering about clothes that may or may not have made it to the lodge and whose fault that was. Isaac and Laurel feed one another bits of food from their plates when they think no one is looking. I sigh. Then there’s us.
Alan lets his plate fall to the table with a clatter, flips his chair around, and straddles it. When he ogles my cleavage, I strongly consider spilling one of the bowls of water on him, floating candles and all. His wife is too busy leering at Coop to notice, apparently. That or they’re far past the point of caring. Still feasting his buggy eyes, he says, “Coop, you sure did good closing that deal. Oh, baby. I could definitely keep myself busy with her… assets.” He chortles like he and Coop are the only ones who caught that oh-so-subtle innuendo.
Behind him, I notice Owen is making his way much slower along the buffet line, with no plate in his hands. It doesn’t take me long to realize he’s offering Toast, whom I assume is riding inside his jacket, a taste of everything.
Fran laughs about three levels too loud, bringing my attention back to her. Rather than seeming disgusted with her husband’s behavior, she eyes Coop like her main course while she tucks a butter knife up the other sleeve. To be honest, I wouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised if she crawled across the table any moment now, grabbed him by his jacket lapels, and dove right into his lap. I have to admit he’s handsome in his perfectly tailored jacket and pants, but not enough to make me lose my dignity or my sense.
Coop chuckles and pats my hand. “Flinch, why don’t you excuse Alan and me so we can go outside and talk business. Ms. Danksbury, you might be interested in this discussion. Care to join us?”
Ms. Danksbury giggles and grabs a red, somewhat scary looking bottle from behind one buffet, along with three shot glasses. “Why, Mr. St. James, you swarthy Butter Buck, have I ever told you about my Hanky Spankies? You and Mr. Marchetti are gonna love these…”
Alan chuckles and winks at me. “A word of advice, toots. A man like St. James has got ‘em lining up. You best make sure and keep him real happy, you hear? You ain’t gonna find a better daddy than that.”
Coop grips him by the back of the shoulder and together they head out the front door. Me, I take several cleansing breaths before I feel a tug on my right wrist. I glance down to find Owen staring at me, Toast wriggling under the front of his coat. When the kitten sees me, he hisses. Of course. Owen doesn’t seem to notice. “Think the lady’ll let me adopt him?”
My heart squeezes, just a little, and I decide if the kid’s in on it, I can’t hold him responsible. Instead, maybe I can convince him to shift loyalties. “Know what, buddy? I’ll do everything I can to make sure of it. In the meantime, what do you say we try to find Toast a proper kitten dinner?”
I could dump a tray of food over Alan’s head. I could call Coop’s bluff and let him know I see him for what he is. I could even come straight with Danksbury and let the cards fall where they may. But then I’d also look like the emotional wreck, the jealous coworker, and the next in line at the unemployment office.
No, it’s far better to play it cool and win. Besides, I can serve up all kinds of justice along the way. Several ideas occurred to me over the course of the last few hours, but I believe I’ll start with one in particular. “Owen, are you a deep sleeper by chance?”