Page 81 of The Viper's Wife

She snorts. “So we can plant the seed. Let your mom and sister think we’re off to a rocky start.”

“And how do you propose I be mean? Should I call you names? Pull your hair?” Despite the frigid breeze slicing across the sidewalk, I’m heating up. “Actually, I’m starting to come around. Maybe I take away your chair, so you have tosit on my lap. And your fork, so I have to feed you. That would be very mean.”

“Maybe you could ignore me the whole night,” she says dryly. “And every time I speak, you start talking about something completely different.”

We walk up to an intersection and wait at the corner. The pedestrian alarm beeps for us to cross, but a white Kia hooks a hard right—I jerk Valeria against my side and flip off the driver as they speed off.

“I wasn’t going to cross,” she says, untangling herself from me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s blushing.

“Of course not,” I say as I guide us to the storefront for Fortune & Sons. “How about this? My mom is going to tell my father what we’re like together. It makes the most sense for us to show them we have a connection. If my father sees that I love you, and that I’m on my best behavior, he won’t rock the boat.”

She jolts to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. I turn toward her, my arm outstretched for the front door.

“But you don’t love me,” she says firmly. Her hands make tight little fists against her sides, but instead of looking angry, she looksworried.

Tiny concessions.

I smile and open the glass door. “Sure.”

We step into Fortune & Sons.

It’s not as nice as some of the other home goods stores I’ve been into—thanks to Alessia, I’ve been in more than I can count—but Valeria’s eyes go wide when she spots the price tag of the first shoddy sectional.

She tugs at her coat collar, gaze never leaving the dollar sign on the couch tag. “Everything in here is too expensive. Let’s go to a thrift store.”

“Too expensive?” I scoff. “I have shoes that cost more than this couch.”

“Are you going to be selling your shoes to pay for the couch?”

“I don’t need to. I can just pay for it.”

Valeria crosses her arms. “Well, I can’t afford my half.”

My blood runs cold.

Some guy in a brown polo walks up to us with a broad smile. “Hi! How can I help you?—”

“Not now,” I snap.

To his credit, the guy pulls a one-eighty and heads in the other direction.

I step toward Valeria. “I already told you—you don’t have to pay for anything while we’re together.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, sure.”

“Did your family make you pay for everything too?”

“Of course they do. Everyone pays for themselves—that’s fair.”

“When you go to a restaurant, who pays?” I ask icily.

“We’ll pay for ourselves.”

“Who pays for your clothes?”

“I do.”

“Who pays your fucking insurance?” I ask, though I’m already guessing at what the answer will be. It’s a good thing her dad is at the Canadian border. I’d love to hear whatever excuse he came up with for making his daughter pay for his obligations.