Marrying The Single Dad. Melinda Curtis

kid yourself,” Brit whispered back. “Cooking is her favorite method of torturing guests.”

      Grandmother Leona liked making people uncomfortable the way a clown liked to make people laugh. Not that you’d see Leona’s lips curl in a smile at the reaction of those served her liver specialty. But her satisfaction would be there in the sly upturn of her voice.

      The smell of liver was stronger in the formal dining room and couldn’t be masked by onions. Brit’s stomach executed the U-turn her feet wanted to do. For sanity reasons, she resorted to being a mouth breather.

      “Brittany.” Grandmother Leona backed through the swinging kitchen door, carrying a serving platter full of steaming liver and onions. She wore a plain blue cotton dress with long sleeves, one of which held a handkerchief tucked at her slender wrist. Her peppery-gray hair was in a smooth beehive and she wore Great-Grandmother Rambling’s pearl choker on her thin regal neck. “Sit down,” Leona said, her tone a command. No please. No warm greeting. No hugs for a granddaughter she hadn’t seen in close to a year, the last time being Dad’s funeral.

      Brit had felt more welcome in Joe’s field this morning.

      Leona set the platter down and took the seat at the head of the table, indicating the twins should sit flanking her. “Regina tells me you’ve rented space at the barbershop.” Her grandmother dished liver onto a plate and tsked. “Four years in college. You shouldn’t be engaged in a trade.”

      “I’m an artisan working to make ends meet.” Self-doubt lumped in Brit’s throat, giving her words the gravelly feel of uncertainty.

      “Is that what they call beauticians now?” Leona had a knack for slipping a barb between people’s defenses. “Artisans?”

      Brit declined the bait. She accepted her plate of liver and claimed two sourdough rolls from the full bread basket.

      “One roll is enough, Brittany.” Leona arched one silver brow. “Carbs live on hips.”

      Brit wasn’t a child anymore. She wouldn’t let Leona make her feel like a wing-clipped duck on a pond during hunting season. She didn’t return the extra roll. Instead, she turned the conversation to Leona’s one weakness: Phil. “I should take the leftover rolls to Grandpa Phil. He’s having cereal for dinner.” Which sounded more appealing now than it had thirty minutes ago.

      Leona stiffened. “He needs to eat more fiber and protein. A healthy diet will make him live longer. We should all learn from what happened to your father.” She couldn’t even call Dad by his first name.

      Her grandmother’s apathy prodded Brit’s rebellious streak. “Phil’s freezer is full of frozen burritos.”

      Reggie had taken her first bite of liver. She looked like a bug had flown into her mouth.

      “There might be enough liver leftover to send Phil a serving.” Unlike most people her age, Leona had a way of frowning that minimized her wrinkles.

      “He’d like that.” Not the liver, but that Leona had done something thoughtful for him. Poor dear was still stuck on his ex. The why was a mystery.

      The liver was thin. Brit cut hers into baby-sized bites and began hiding them under the mashed potatoes. This wasn’t her first liver rodeo.

      “I booked two guests for next weekend,” Reggie said proudly. “They bought the wine-tasting package. That’s fifty dollars more a night.”

      “Don’t mention dollars at the dinner table.” Leona didn’t seem impressed with Reggie’s accomplishment. “I’m assuming you invited Brittany over because you’ve finally agreed to my terms. I can’t sell the Victorian to just one of you.”

      “Yes.” Reggie set down her knife and fork on the far side of her plate, the way you did at restaurants to indicate you were done. She didn’t look at Brit. “We agree.”

      We?

      Brit choked on a bite of mashed potatoes. Maybe because a small piece of liver had made its way onto her fork. Maybe not. Maybe because she was choking on Reggie’s lie.

      Leona stared at Reggie with calculating eyes. And then she laughed. “I smell desperation.”

      “It’s the liver,” Brit said, half under her breath.

      Reggie mentioned a crazy sum of money. She did not mention that Brit had refused to be her business partner.

      A smart woman would have backed away from the table. A smart woman would have abandoned her twin to face Leona alone.

      Brit sat very still.

      “The money might be acceptable,” Leona said, as a queen might say a jewel-encrusted crown could use a few more Hope Diamonds. “But I have other conditions to the sale.”

      “More than me being on the contract?” Brit asked in a strained voice.

      Reggie had yet to meet Brit’s gaze, busy as she was selling her lies to Leona.

      “Yes. I want to live here until the day I die.” Leona looked like she was playing her trump card. She was almost smiling. “Rent-free.”

      Deal-breaker.

      Brit met Reggie’s gaze across the liver platter and shook her head. Once upon a time, she and Reggie had been masters of twin-speak. Back before the Promotion Dance, Brit had been able to tell what Reggie was thinking before she started a sentence. And now? Her twin-speak was tuned to a different frequency. Was Reggie actually considering Grandmother Leona’s proposition?

      “I may only be in a trade,” Brit ventured into the silence. “But I know a bad business deal when I see one. The answer is no.”

      Reggie looked more stricken than when she’d been chewing the liver. What was wrong with her? She’d been a shark in hotel management. And now? In the course of twelve hours, she’d been pushed around by Shaggy Joe and Grandmother Leona. Maybe Reggie did need a business partner. Just not Brit.