Page 51 of 10 Rings I Hate About You
Even if that dog had a rhinestone collar that I had a suspicion was real diamonds, and her tiny gown matched Glamma’s.
“I, ah …” My jaw was left somewhere near the stone steps. “This place isinsane.”
Glamma laughed—a bright, sweet sound, wrapped in mischief—entirely too delighted by my comment. “Oh, this old thing? Come in. Come in.”
I stepped inside before my feet could make the executive decision to flee. The only thing holding me back was that if a woman like Glamma invited you to dinner, you showed up. You stayed. Even if you suspected emotional warfare was on the menu.
The hallway was gilded. Literally gold. Art hung, expensive and elegantly framed, similar to curated museums. The kind where you weren’t allowed to breathe near the frames.
My boots clicked against the marble floor as I followed Glamma’s sparkly heels and quietly did the math on whether a single painting could cover the shop’s bills for the year.
It could. Twice.
Was Marc already here?
My stomach did that thing I didn’t appreciate. I’d wanted to arrive first—the same impulse I’d had at the shelter this morning. If I could get my equilibrium set before he walked in,I’d be calm. I’d be the version of myself that didn’t track every door that opened like my eyes had a Marc-seeking setting I hadn’t consciously installed.
Not that I was doing that. Absolutely not.
Glamma paused at the rounded doorway and gestured grandly. “In we go.”
I had a sudden, powerful sense that Alice had felt exactly like this before she fell into the rabbit hole.
I stepped through and stopped dead.
The dining table was enormous. A Viking feast could’ve happened here. Or a board meeting. Or a blood ritual. Instead, four women sat clustered in the center with the energy of a coven mid-emergency session. Gladys and Goldie sat on one side. Martha sat across from Gladys.
They regarded me intently. Reading glasses perched. Pens at the ready.
Clipboards. They hadclipboards. Like elderly judges ready for the talent show to start.
Seeing the four of them together, I started to understand Ellie’s reference a few months ago to theGolden Girlsand wondered why I hadn’t seen it before tonight. Glamma bore a striking resemblance to Rose, Gladys to Dorothy, Martha to Sophia, and Goldie to Blanche. The only difference was their always coordinated outfits.
And there was Marc. Sitting next to Gladys.
Already seated, spine so straight it would’ve impressed a posture coach, hands folded, wearing an expression that indicated he’d been sitting there long enough to run through all five stages of grief and land somewhere around resigned acceptance.
Then he saw me.
His face shifted—a flicker, there and gone. Not quite relief. Quieter than that. And it was gone before I could fully understand it.
I cut my gaze away before I could do anything stupid with that information.
Oh, this was bad.
Anger rolled through me the second I realized I was empathizing with his discomfort.
Absolutely not.
Empathy was a gateway drug.
So what if this had the energy of a very civilized execution or a weird matchmaking event?
I choked on my saliva at that thought.
No, no, no, no… please don’t let them be matchmaking. I’d heard all about Ellie and Drew’s romance intervention and prayed to anyone who’d listen that this was a thousand percentnotthat.
“Sit, sit.” Concern settled in Glamma’s eyes as she settled next to Gladys and patted the chair directly across from Marc.
