Melanie shook her cup. “Yep, I need a re-fill.”
“You’re going to turn into a milkshake,” Zoe said.
Melanie shrugged. “You just wait until you’re pregnant. Then we’ll see what you crave. Fish and chips, maybe? Or spotted dick?”
“Oh, good Lord, Melanie. I don’t know how Carter puts up with you,” Zoe said with a laugh.
Paparazzi ambushed them as they walked out of the Hollands’ store. Reporters peppered her with questions and shoved pictures of Christian in her face. Ignoring the group, she propelled Melanie back inside and locked the door behind them.
“What the hell was that?” Melanie asked, her hand placed protectively over her belly.
“Asshats of the major kind,” Zoe said.
After thirty minutes all but one had left. She scowled at him. He was the same reporter who’d said she dated all the guys who’d auditioned for her movies. Slimeball. He plopped his skinny butt down on the bench outside and pulled out a sandwich, tearing at it with uneven teeth.
“Gross.” Melanie’s face turned an alarming shade of green.
He chewed with his mouth open. Whole globs of what looked like chicken salad splattered his stained t-shirt.
Skye and Rose joined them at the front of the store.
“We could get rid of him for you,” Rose offered. The bangles on her arms clicked together as she moved an ivy plant out of their way.
Zoe eyed them, wondering if Rose could order some for her.
“I’ll have some in tomorrow. In your favorite colors,” Skye said, her auburn hair swinging. She repositioned jars and bottles on display in an ancient hutch. The Holland sisters could always be counted on for three things: their potions and their love advice. The third one wasn’t worth repeating. Stupid town gossips.
“No,” Zoe said, an idea coming to mind. “This is something I have to do for myself.” It was risky and maybe even foolish, but dammit she wasn’t going to be called a fool for love for nothing. “Wish me luck, y’all.”
Taking a deep breath, Zoe unlocked the door and stepped outside.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
If Christian had to bow one more time while mumbling something about being honored to be there, he was going to sit his arse down in the nearest chair and remain there for the duration of his stay. Protocol be damned. His father’s barely concealed looks of don’t-fuck-this-up be damned as well.
“At least you haven’t forgotten your manners,” Vladimir said.
They strode toward the billiards room, keeping a respectable distance from the His Royal Gingerness. At least that’s what Christian and Sasha called Prince Damien in private. They knew the man hated his nickname and used it at every opportunity to remark on anything remotely resembling the red shade of Damien’s hair. Whoever saw and said it first, punched the other. It was a game they’d played since primary school.
“Would you look at that ginger vase?” Christian punched his cousin in the side.
Sasha let out an omph and earned a scathing look from Vladimir.
For once Sebastian was late, but Christian knew it had to be due to some kind of perceived financial meltdown. Protocol was the air his brother breathed. Punctuality his bread and water. Romanov Industries, his mistress. A cold bed, that.
“Alexander, go fetch something,” Vladimir said with an edge to his voice.
“A glass of port, milord?” Sasha asked, sounding ridiculously subservient.
“Out,” Vladimir shouted, making the line of men in front of them pause and turn their way.
“He needs his own special rod to play with, during billiards,” Christian said with unholy glee.
The Prince and his companions nodded thoughtfully and resumed their pace.
Christian cast a look his father’s way. It was rare to see his father so overcome. Spittle actually gathered at the corners of his mouth, making him look like a rabid dog.
“Do you know what an embarrassment you are to this family? To me? Your brother? You’re the reason why Francesca left in the first place,” Vladimir hissed at him.
Christian laced his hands behind his back and kept a bland expression. “No, she found you having sex with her sister.”
“If you had bothered to inform me of Francesca’s early return, she’d never have found out,” Vladimir said, his indignation palatable.
“I was twelve. Surely, you could found a better look-out than a pre-adolescent boy.”
“Same tune, different day,” said a familiar voice.
Christian whirled around and made a face, his sharp retort gone. “Who the hell helped you dress?”
Sebastian glanced down at his suit, smoothing an invisible wrinkle. “Alexander had it sent over. Why?”
“Have you looked in the mirror? At us? Bloody hell, man,” Christian said and gestured to his clothing.
The look on Sebastian’s face could only be described as incredulous. “He’s dressed us like we’re still in short pants.”
“Looking like me does have its benefits,” Christian smirked.
“Would you shut your vulgar mouth, Christian?” Vladimir growled as he turned around. “Good God, who’s who?”
Christian turned to his brother and raised his brows. Sebastian’s eyes flashed with humor. Though it had been years since they’d last pulled this of prank and the consequences had been more than painful, they gave their father the same grin.
“You tell us,” they said simultaneously.
“I’m not playing this stupid game. One of you change.” Vladimir stalked off.
Sebastian shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “All he had to do was look at our hands.”
“Admiring my new hardware, were you?” Christian wriggled his fingers. “Sorry, you’ll have to get your own.”
“No thanks. I’m not getting married until I’m at least thirty-five.”
“Is it in your business contract with Father?”
“Was it in yours?”
“Touché.” Christian inclined his head. “Shall we continue to torture him?”
“His head’s likely to explode,” Sebastian said.
“And how’s that different from any other day I’m around?”
Sebastian raised a brow. “But you get to leave. I’ll go change.”
Before his brother could leave, their father came storming back and grabbed both of them by the arm. “I actually don’t give a damn which one of you is which, but by God one of you will tell me who the low-class chit belongs to.”