Page 50 of 10 Rings I Hate About You
My face burned. My entire body burned. I couldn’t remember the last time I was this mortified.
Glamma beamed at us, utterly delighted with herself. She was wearing what appeared to be one of her many vintage, flowy dresses with gold embroidery and approximately seven poundsof rose quartz jewelry. “You two will be at my house tonight. Seven o’clock. Dinner.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Glamma—” I began.
Her gaze swung to me, sharp and knowing, and the words died in my throat. I’d seen that look before. Usually right before she got what she wanted.
“Well, tonight’s not—” Delaney added.
“No arguing. Seven o’clock. Both of you. I’m making my famous cassoulet.” She swept towards the door in a cloud of perfume and fabric. “You’re going to get to know each other properly so you can stop arguing like two alley cats in a rainstorm.”
She was gone before we could object, leaving behind only the faintest scent of Portrait of a Lady and the sound of her low heels clacking down the hallway.
Delaney stared at me.
I stared at her.
Neither of us acknowledged what had almost happened. What we’d almost done before we were interrupted.
“Well,” she said slowly. “That was … unexpected.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, holding the clipboard tight because I didn’t trust myself to not reach for her. “Unexpected.”
An inadequate word. Catastrophically inadequate.
But I couldn’t think of a better one. Couldn’t think of anything except the fact that I’d been seconds away from kissing Delaney Hart in the middle of an animal shelter, and the most disturbing part wasn’t that I’d almost done it.
It was that I wanted to try again.
And—
I wasn’t entirely sure I was dreading dinner tonight.
Chapter Nine
DELANEY
Holy crap.
I knew Glamma lived in a large house, but I didn’t know she lived in anactualmansion. People talked about the fancy parties she hosted here—the kind that apparently required valet parking and a small orchestra, but I’d assumed they’d been exaggerating.
I had been very, embarrassingly wrong.
The place had aturret. A turret. An actual turret. Like a fairytale princess might lean out at any moment, toss down her hair, and ask if I’d brought snacks. The stone facade stretched wide enough to swallow three of my aunt’s little apartments whole, and the lake behind it caught the last of the evening light as though the universe had staged it for me to be impressed.
Which I was. Obviously.
As I stood in front of her double-wide doors in my jeans, boots, favorite cardigan, and graphic tee—the one with the moon phases on it that I thought looked artsy and now realized was giving “I thought this was casual” energy in a place that hadnever heard casual uttered within its walls, I questioned every single choice I’d made that led me to this.
“Darlin’, come on in,” Glamma swept open the front door, her evening gown catching the light the way it would if she’d hired a cinematographer. Coco sat at her feet, staring up at me with the steady, unblinking gaze of judgmental concern.
The dog tilted her head.
That cardigan, her eyes said.Really?
I tugged at my sleeve then stopped. Why was I letting a dog judge my clothes?
