Page 40 of Ruthless Claim

But here’s the thing about Emma.

She doesn’t have a polite, contained laugh.

No, my sister-in-law laughs with her whole body. She tips back slightly in her chair, one hand coming up to cover her mouth.

The couple two tables over look across at us.

“Stop,” I hiss, my face flaming as I glance at the other patrons. “Emma. Stop.”

“I’m…” She’s pressing her lips together but her shoulders are shaking and her face is red. “I’m sorry, I’m⁠—”

“You’re causing a scene,” I snap, glaring at the other people who are staring at us. Why can’t people mind their business?

“You slept with him,” she says, with great clarity, still laughing at a volume that is not appropriate for a brunch in a restaurant where I am a regular.

The woman at the table to our left turns her head and I seriously want to melt into a puddle right now.

“Emma,” I say, in my lowest, most warning voice. It’s the one I use on junior gallery staff when they’ve made an error that requires correction.

Unfortunately for me, it has never worked on Emma and it does not work now.

“Oh my god,” she says, getting herself partially under control, dabbing at the corner of her eye with the backs of her fingers, her cheeks still flushed with laughter. “Oh my god, Valentina. Cillian?”

“Shh!”

“You actually—” She gestures at me in a way that I think is meant to encompass my general situation. “With Cillian?”

“Could you say his name at a normal volume just once,” I request stiffly, unable to handle this type of embarrassment. “As a gift to me.”

“Sorry.” She doesn’t look sorry at all, though. She picks up her water and takes a sip. I can see her working to arrange her face into something less amused, which takes several seconds.

“Okay,” she says finally, taking a breath. “I’m calm.” She leans forward, elbows on the table, a wicked grin on her face. “Tell me everything. But like, not the gory details, you know? He is my cousin after all.”

“Can you make it obvious you’re not eavesdropping?” I snap to the woman sitting to our left, who is very clearly still listening in. “Did your mother teach you any manners?”

The woman flushes and turns away.

Glaring at the back of her head, I turn my attention back to my best friend as she watches me with amusement.

“There’s nothing to tell,” I tell her firmly, “because it was a mistake and it will not happen again.”

She scoffs, clearly not believing me.

“It won’t,” I add.

“Valentina.” She leans forward as far as she can, those green eyes soft now under the amusement. “You’re sitting like you pulled something.”

I become immediately aware of how I’m sitting. “I’m sitting perfectly normally⁠—”

“You’re sitting like you’re aware of muscles they weren’t aware of yesterday,” she informs me. “I recognize it. Also”—she points at her own neck—“right there. Your scarf slipped.”

My hand immediately goes to my neck. To my horror, the scarf did slip. I yank the silk up with both hands and close my eyes for a moment, thinking about how I would like to be somewhere else.

“It’s a good one,” Emma offers, conversationally.

“Please,” I nearly beg.

“Sorry.” She is not sorry. Her eyes are still dancing. But she reaches across the table and squeezes my hand once. When she pulls back her expression has settled into something that has the teasing in it still but has warmth underneath it too. “Okay. I’m listening. Start wherever you want.”