Page 49 of Oops! I Married a Rock Star
“Why don’t you get it, Becca? It’s in the kitchen,” Sylvie says bossily.
“I’ll get it.” I pat Becca’s back, the picture of a perfectly solicitous husband. “Don’t want to bother her when she’s enjoying her grandmother’s most excellent cooking.”
I stand up and start toward the kitchen. I hear a chair squeak.
“Lemme show you where it is!” Sylvie says, trotting toward me.
Does she think I’m blind? I can see the damned fridge right in front of me.
But she’s already pressing herself all over me, her hand resting on my butt. Ugh. My ass isn’t communal property! And why isn’t Margaret making some snide comment about Sylvie’s behavior? She probably can’t hear from all the way over at the table.
Sylvie spins around me, and…
I stiffen. Did she just…grab me?
Her surprised gaze collides with mine. She most definitely grabbed me.
“You…” Her mouth opens and shuts, like her brain hasn’t caught up to it yet.
I take pity. “Yeah. Larger than average.”
She blinks, then clears her throat. “Yeah, that, but… Um. Why aren’t you hard? I’ve been all over you,” she says in a hushed voice, like a confused child questioning the wonders of the universe.
Normally, I might feel a tiny bit of concern and anxiety about BPS. But even if I didn’t have that condition, I wouldn’t have gotten hard with her. My dick has some standards.
So I lower my head and give her my emptiest smile. “Because it’s difficult to get excited over a cut-rate, dry, tasteless hamburger.?
? My gaze flicks to Becca. “You see, I only do prime pieces with enough taste that they don’t put their hands all over their cousin’s husband. And contrary to what you think, I’m perfectly capable of finding the fridge in a kitchen, along with the Dr. Pepper inside.”
“But I’m prettier than Becca,” she whines.
“You need to get glasses.” I grab a Dr. Pepper and return to the table, leaving Sylvie behind.
Becca is staring, her jaw slack. It’s obvious that no one has put Sylvie in her place before. Margaret clearly hasn’t, and the local men probably go stupid over Sylvie’s “me stripper, you pole” routine.
I give Becca my most charming smile. “Why don’t we have some of your pie? I’m dying for it.” Then, more because I can’t resist the urge rather than needing to put on a show, I place a firm kiss on her soft pink mouth.
A flush spreads beautifully across her face, and I curse the fact that we have an audience. I wonder how much longer this dinner is going to last, and when I can get her alone.
“Sure,” she says in a slightly dazed tone.
She gets up and serves the pie. The rest of us wait in a civilized manner, although Sylvie’s got steam coming off her like a heated pool in winter. But I only pay attention to Becca, while keeping an eye on Margaret, since she’s the one I really need to charm in order to get that house. It’s more difficult than I imagined, though. I’ve discovered I don’t like Margaret.
But I can do this. I bided my time while living with my dad. Buttering Margaret up can’t be harder than getting that perfect SAT score.
Margaret takes a bite of the pie. She chews, and I can see wheels turning in her head, which is a weird reaction to dessert. The pie has a good crust—well, it’s store-bought, so it better be good—and the peach chunks are sweet and soft enough. I don’t taste anything weird. But Margaret’s frowning, and it reminds me of Leslie Turner, the asshole music critic who’s never said anything positive about anybody’s music, including ours. The turd called our latest album, our biggest seller, “flat, boring and repetitive.” I mocked him publicly, saying he needs to stop plagiarizing his own reviews because he hasn’t found an album that isn’t “flat, boring and repetitive.”
And I’m not going to have Margaret pull a Turner on Becca.
“Man, this is good. Maybe the best peach pie I’ve ever had,” I say, laying it on thick. Considering the fact that Becca used canned peaches, I’ve actually had better. But this is a pre-emptive strike. I’m going to launch something just a notch below a nuke.
“You’ve never had pies in the South, have you?” Sylvie says.
“Actually, I have. Axelrod’s based in Dallas, and I love pie. But this is the best, really.” I take a big bite with a huge smile.
“Could use a bit more sugar,” Margaret says, revealing how dysfunctional her taste buds are. The pie is sweet enough to rot the enamel off a person’s teeth.
“If she had, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy it. Need to watch those carbs. Six-packs don’t come without some sacrifice.” I pat my stomach. “She had to adjust the recipe a little for me.”
