Page 47 of A Billionaire for Christmas
The stern-looking woman in her late sixties huffed at him over the top of her glasses. Molly noticed her slender fingers weighed down with a plethora of antique-looking diamond, platinum and gold rings, the expensive cashmere dress hugging her slim frame, subtle lowlights streaking her perfectly shiny bobbed grey hair.
‘Molly, meet Valerie. The matriarch,’ Lucca said, sweeping his arms dramatically towards his mother. ‘I’d love to say wicked stepmother but I’m afraid I did actually smash my way out of there.’ He grimaced. ‘Her words, not mine.’
Valerie rolled her eyes at him. ‘And I still haven’t fully recovered.’
Molly waited for her to laugh the joke off, but she didn’t. ‘Nice to meet you,’ Molly said, holding out a hand.
Valerie stared at the outstretched limb with confusion, perhaps even mild horror.
‘Mother doesn’t do touching or hugging.’ Lucca shook his head sadly at Valerie. ‘Not even with her own children.’
Ignoring her son, Valerie smiled tightly at Molly. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’
‘None of it true, I hope,’ Molly joked, retracting the handshake. Lord only knew what Levi had said about her.
Valerie knitted her eyebrows together. ‘Petra said you were very talented. My good friend was a guest at one of your lunches. I had been wondering if we could discuss potential catering for the wedding.’
‘Mother. Leave the poor woman alone. She’s literally just arrived back from a very traumatic experience.’ Lucca gave Molly a sympathetic look. ‘Snowed in with my brother for almost two days. It doesn’t come more harrowing than that.’ He winked at her. ‘Did he make you sit in silence and watch him work?’
‘Only while he had me wearing the gag ball and handcuffs,’ she replied flatly. While Lucca howled with laughter and Valerie looked confused, Molly was thankful that no one could see the humiliating images her brain was currently showing her. She’d have been lucky to get as far as handcuffs. Levi had a will of iron when it came to resisting her.
‘It’s fine.’ She wiped her hands on a teacloth, keen to get back on topic. ‘I’d love to discuss wedding menus. I have quite a lot of ideas that?—’
Valerie tutted at Lucca before training her piercing sky-blue eyes on Molly. ‘You wouldn’t be the main caterer. Good Lord!’ She seemed to find the idea so funny that she had to grip the bench with one hand while placing the other to her chest, her laughter coming in small silent huffs. ‘No. No. We’ll be getting proper Michelin chefs in to do the actual food. You’d do the nibbles. To accompany the welcome drinks on day one, or possibly day three. It depends how good you are. Oh, and each day is colour coordinated so the canapés will have to reflect that.’
‘Colour-matched food?’
‘Yes. Though can you believe, I’m having trouble getting a caterer to commit to a Santorini theme? I mean, how hard can it be to do blue and white food?’ She shook her head.
Blue food. The most natural of all the food colours. Molly had no words.
‘And before you say it, not blueberries. I can’t stand them.’
‘Mother. Stop micromanaging and let her get on with dinner.Merci, Molly.’ Lucca dragged his mother away from the open-plan kitchen to the living room area. ‘Where’s Papa?’
‘Where do you bloody think? He’s online golfing. Again. I mean, why does he even bother to come anywhere with us? I’d divorce him, if only I had the time. Now, be a darling and get me the number of those caterers who did that event for you in Chambéry.’
Molly tried not to eavesdrop but the place was so ridiculously open plan, she could hear every word.
‘Have you tried talking to him?’
‘Lucca. Don’t be ridiculous. I haven’t tried to talk to him in twenty years. I’m not going to start now. He never listened then. He won’t listen now. Stubborn fool.’
Molly watched Lucca guide his mother to the far corner of the living area where Valerie proceeded to scroll through her phone. Three family members down. Three to go.
‘Go on then, I’ll have a margarita,’ said a young woman, sweeping into the kitchen. She was immaculately groomed, skin glowing, not a single hair out of place, eyebrows microbladed into perfect arches, tinted lashes curling towards the ceiling and dressed for a weekend in Ibiza, even though it was minus forty outside. ‘Two twists and an extra shot.’
‘Does she look like a mixologist?’ Lucca yelled, walking back over. ‘Molly, this is my emotionally dysregulated sister Freda. She’s a raging alcoholic. Please don’t serve her anything.’
Freda whacked him on the shoulder. ‘Ignore him. I’m not. But make it a double, please. I’m having a terrible day.’
‘Life is so awful for you,ma p’tite soeur. Molly, imagine having to get up at noon, drink cocktails all day, scroll through your phone and then go back to bed. Tragic. How do you cope?’
This earned Lucca another wallop, this time to the stomach.
‘I’m drinking because I have a lot on.’
‘You sound like Mother.’
