Bentley
Tonight we’re having pasta and beefsteak for dinner, and it looks really good. Everything I’ve had here has been great—Venessa is a really good cook, and I bet Hillary would be too, since she helps.
“Thank you,” I say to Hillary, grabbing her arm just after she pours me a glass of wine.
She won’t even look at me or talk to me.
“Do you feel better now?” I ask, squeezing her tiny hand.
“Yeah,” she mumbles, trying to get away from me.
I tighten my grip—damn, she’s started with her nasty attitude again.
“We have work tonight. You can sleep tomorrow,” I mutter quietly.
“Okay, sir,” she responds, and I have to look around to make sure Nessa or Laurel didn’t catch that.
They didn’t.
I let Hillary go, and we all sit down quietly for dinner. It’s usually buzzing with conversation
