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“Nah,” he said. “I’ve done enough parties. And Byron and this guy
getting married is the shit you throw parties for.”
“Watch your mouth,” Ted grumbled. “There are ladies present.”
“Right. Sorry, Ma.” He looked at me with eyes that were a lighter blue
than his brothers’. “Sorry, Mrs. Crowne.”
He was half joking. Maybe all the way joking. I didn’t know him well
enough to judge.
“You can call her Ella,” Logan said.
“They’ll make you an omelette if you want,” Doreen whispered to me.
“This is perfect,” I said, accepting a second scoop of eggs. “I’m
starving.”
A woman put a latte at my place.
“Oh, thank you.”
“It’s vanilla,” Logan added.
The woman nodded and disappeared.
“So,” Doreen said, “Logan hasn’t had a chance to tell us anything about
you. Your father was Basile Papillion?”
“Yes.”
“He made a dress for me for the Met Gala that was… I couldn’t believe
how beautiful.”
“Stunning,” Ted said before eating a potato.
“I still have it. I was so sorry to hear of his passing. We lost a great
talent.” She put a shaky hand over mine and squeezed it, looking at me with
clear blue eyes that were windows to her heart. Whatever Doreen thought of
me or my marriage to her son, her words about my father were sincere.
“Thank you,” I said. “He was a great man.”
“Talking about me again?” Dante Crowne blew in, perfectly put
together and taking up more space than even his six-foot four frame should
have.
“Hardly,” Logan said.
Dante stood beside me. “You must be the new Crowne in town.” He
reached out for a handshake, but when I returned the gesture, he kissed the
top of my hand.
I decided not to correct the name. Not again today.
Dante took Doreen’s seat at the foot of the table. “Colton.” He snapped
open his napkin and laid it on his lap. “You’re back.”
“Don’t look so happy.”