Page 106 of Nine Months to Love

“I’m sorry, Mother,” Olivia says finally. “I should have invited him in.”

“Yes, you should have.” Margaret plucks a hair off her sweater. “Well, you’re here now, Stefan. That’s what matters.”

Olivia’s father appears behind her. He nods at me. “Stefan.”

“Mr. Aster.”

“Please, call me Richard.”

Margaret claps her hands together. “This is perfect. You’ll both stay for a late dinner. I insist.”

“That’s not necessary,” Olivia says quickly. “We should really?—”

“I won’t hear of it. You’re here. Stefan’s here. We should all eat together like a family.”

Olivia’s jaw tightens. “Mother?—”

“It’s settled.” Margaret turns to Richard. “Darling, would you help me in the kitchen?”

Richard hesitates, then nods. “Of course.”

They disappear through the doorway, leaving Olivia and me alone in the living room.

Olivia crosses her arms over her chest. She won’t look at me directly, but I can see her struggling with something. Anger, embarrassment, or both, I’m sure.

“I’m sorry about this,” she says finally. “I know you don’t want to be here.”

“That’s not true,” I reply. “If it helps you to have me here, I’m happy to do it.”

“Even though you want nothing to do with my family of social climbers?”

I cringe, but I deserve that. I step closer. Not too close, just enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes.

“They may be that way,” I say quietly. “But you’re not. And I’m here for you. Not for them.”

Her throat works as she swallows. “I can’t just forget what you said, Stefan.”

“I don’t expect you to.” I hold her gaze. “But we can put that aside, get through tonight, and pick it up tomorrow.”

She studies my face like she’s searching for something. Proof that I mean it, maybe. Or proof that I don’t.

“Okay,” she says finally. “We can do that.”

The tension in my chest eases slightly. It’s not forgiveness. It’s not even close. But it’s something.

It’s enough.

34

OLIVIA

The dining room feels like a stage set for torture. Mom has gone above and beyond and pulled out the good china—the Wedgwood with the gold trim that only appears for “special occasions.” Translation: when she wants to impress someone who matters.

Stefan sits across from me, his face neutral as he carves up his chicken. Dad pours, Mom titters, and we all exchange polite jokes and stories, as if this isn’t the biggest farce of all time.

“The chicken is excellent, Margaret,” Stefan says politely.

My mother preens. “It’s a family recipe. Passed down from my grandmother.”