say, limited?”
Annalesa had been worried about Ric going off, but now she was the one who felt like a simmering volcano.
I need a drink , she thought. Several of them. In a row. In very quick succession.
Her face was beginning to hurt from keeping a smile pasted on. “No, I went back to England to get my degree.”
“You did art, didn’t you?” Mrs. Whelan’s eyebrows drew together, her already narrow eyes almost disappearing as she squinted up at her. “Pity.”
“Actually, I did history of ar—”
“You should be grateful your mother married into money. Now you’re a trust-fund baby.” Mrs. Whelan shook her bleached-blonde up do. “You can afford to be a poor artist now, can’t you? Because Lord knows, artists don’t earn a damn thing. Not even the really talented ones.”
“Spoken like a true bitter artist,” Ric cut in coolly.
“Excuse me?” Mrs. Whelan’s already pale, puffy face turned as white as a fluffy cotton ball. Then two little roses bloomed in her cheeks.
“You know, she’s right about starving artists.” Annalesa put her hand on Ric’s forearm in a silent, gentle plea. Just smile and nod and don’t say anything else, she told him with the press of her fingers, the look in her eyes. Let’s not make a scene.
But she could tell, Ric wasn’t going to let it go. He had that look in his eyes, not quite as fiery as the day he punched Ryan in the face, but still. He couldn’t stand to hear anyone disparage Annalesa, and he wasn’t going to make an exception today, that much was clear.
Should’ve gone for that drink, she thought. Should’ve stolen a bottle from the bar. We could be hiding in a corner getting drunk together right now.
“Do you always have to say the first thing that pops into your head?” Ric raised a brow at Mrs. Whelan. “You could use a filter, like everyone else. I’m just saying.”
“I’m being honest.” Mrs. Whelan stiffened. “It’s one of the reasons I’ve been such a good teacher all these years. I’m willing to tell the truth. I was just trying to warn your sister that—”
“No, don’t pretend you were looking out for her,” he countered, his voice soft, but his words piercing. “You were trying to make her feel small, and to be honest , that’s exactly how you make all your students feel. It’s the reason we stopped taking lessons with you, Mrs. Whelan. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re going to go have our dinner.”
Ric took both their plates and headed for one of the tables, leaving Mrs. Whelan speechless, staring after him, mouth agape.
Annalesa opened her mouth too, ready to make apologies for her stepbrother. Then she remembered how Mrs. Whelan had looked her up and down, how her first comment had been about Annalesa’s weight—and then Ric’s. Ric was already at the table, his back to her, and she looked at him, remembering the way he’d stood up for her.
Now and back then.
In the past, she’d felt embarrassed, too paralyzed by confrontation to appreciate the way he never failed to come to her rescue when things like this happened. But now—things were different. The afternoon they’d shared on the range, the things they’d said, she knew they were slowly making things right again. If she apologized to Mrs. Whelan for what Ric had said—no matter how ill-advised it had been—she would be falling into the same old patterns.
So, instead of making any apologies, Annalesa turned and followed Ric toward the long table, not looking back to see Mrs. Whelan’s reaction. When she slid onto the bench beside him and dropped her napkin in her lap, Ric gave her a smile that raised her pulse.
“You came after me?” He frowned. “Or was it because I had your plate?”
“I came after you ,” she said softly, making sure her eyes never left his. “Not the food.”
“I have to say, this pig’s worth pursuing,” Ric joked,
Annalesa had been worried about Ric going off, but now she was the one who felt like a simmering volcano.
I need a drink , she thought. Several of them. In a row. In very quick succession.
Her face was beginning to hurt from keeping a smile pasted on. “No, I went back to England to get my degree.”
“You did art, didn’t you?” Mrs. Whelan’s eyebrows drew together, her already narrow eyes almost disappearing as she squinted up at her. “Pity.”
“Actually, I did history of ar—”
“You should be grateful your mother married into money. Now you’re a trust-fund baby.” Mrs. Whelan shook her bleached-blonde up do. “You can afford to be a poor artist now, can’t you? Because Lord knows, artists don’t earn a damn thing. Not even the really talented ones.”
“Spoken like a true bitter artist,” Ric cut in coolly.
“Excuse me?” Mrs. Whelan’s already pale, puffy face turned as white as a fluffy cotton ball. Then two little roses bloomed in her cheeks.
“You know, she’s right about starving artists.” Annalesa put her hand on Ric’s forearm in a silent, gentle plea. Just smile and nod and don’t say anything else, she told him with the press of her fingers, the look in her eyes. Let’s not make a scene.
But she could tell, Ric wasn’t going to let it go. He had that look in his eyes, not quite as fiery as the day he punched Ryan in the face, but still. He couldn’t stand to hear anyone disparage Annalesa, and he wasn’t going to make an exception today, that much was clear.
Should’ve gone for that drink, she thought. Should’ve stolen a bottle from the bar. We could be hiding in a corner getting drunk together right now.
“Do you always have to say the first thing that pops into your head?” Ric raised a brow at Mrs. Whelan. “You could use a filter, like everyone else. I’m just saying.”
“I’m being honest.” Mrs. Whelan stiffened. “It’s one of the reasons I’ve been such a good teacher all these years. I’m willing to tell the truth. I was just trying to warn your sister that—”
“No, don’t pretend you were looking out for her,” he countered, his voice soft, but his words piercing. “You were trying to make her feel small, and to be honest , that’s exactly how you make all your students feel. It’s the reason we stopped taking lessons with you, Mrs. Whelan. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re going to go have our dinner.”
Ric took both their plates and headed for one of the tables, leaving Mrs. Whelan speechless, staring after him, mouth agape.
Annalesa opened her mouth too, ready to make apologies for her stepbrother. Then she remembered how Mrs. Whelan had looked her up and down, how her first comment had been about Annalesa’s weight—and then Ric’s. Ric was already at the table, his back to her, and she looked at him, remembering the way he’d stood up for her.
Now and back then.
In the past, she’d felt embarrassed, too paralyzed by confrontation to appreciate the way he never failed to come to her rescue when things like this happened. But now—things were different. The afternoon they’d shared on the range, the things they’d said, she knew they were slowly making things right again. If she apologized to Mrs. Whelan for what Ric had said—no matter how ill-advised it had been—she would be falling into the same old patterns.
So, instead of making any apologies, Annalesa turned and followed Ric toward the long table, not looking back to see Mrs. Whelan’s reaction. When she slid onto the bench beside him and dropped her napkin in her lap, Ric gave her a smile that raised her pulse.
“You came after me?” He frowned. “Or was it because I had your plate?”
“I came after you ,” she said softly, making sure her eyes never left his. “Not the food.”
“I have to say, this pig’s worth pursuing,” Ric joked,
Similar Books
