Page 105 of Sleeping with the Enemy

Nadia had asked about her work, genuinely curious. Harper had argued with her about whether Oregon wines were underrated or appropriately rated, which somehow became a thirty-minute debate that ended with them both laughing. And when Astoria had tried to help clear the table, Nadia had simply said, “Good. Miller never helps,” and handed her a dish towel.

And that was that. She’d become family.

“How’s work?” Harper asked, pouring wine into two glasses while Nadia and Miller set the table in the dining room.

“It’s good,” Astoria said. “Busy. We’re finalizing plans for a development in Seattle, and the foundation is hosting an art exhibition Friday night.”

“The Green Future Foundation thing Miller mentioned?”

“Yes. We’re showcasing an emerging sustainable artist. She creates installations from reclaimed materials. It should be interesting.”

“You’re inviting the billionaire crowd?”

Astoria smiled at Harper’s tone and the way she said “billionaire crowd” like it was a species of bird. “Some of them, yes. Isabella Montgomery confirmed, and Diana Rothstein said she might come.”

“And you’re worried we’ll feel out of place.”

Astoria’s hand stilled on the wine bottle. “Miller said?—”

“Miller’s right. We won’t.” Harper met her eyes, steady and certain. “We've been to plenty of your events, Astoria. We know how to behave.”

“I didn't mean?—”

“I know you didn’t.” Harper's expression softened slightly. “But you worry anyway. It's fine. Just remember that the people at those things might have more money than us, but that doesn't make them more interesting.”

“Most of them aren’t,” Astoria admitted.

"Exactly.” Harper picked up both wine glasses. “Now come on. Nadia's going to make us say grace if we don't sit down soon, and I'm trying to avoid that.”

The dining room table was set with mismatched plates and cloth napkins that had seen better days. Miller was already seated, leaning back in her chair with Willow's head resting on her knee. Nadia appeared from the kitchen carrying a platter of chicken, golden and perfect, and set it in the center of the table with a satisfied sound.

“Everyone sit,” she said. “Before it gets cold.”

They claimed their usual seats—Miller and Astoria on one side, Nadia and Harper on the other—and for a moment, Astoria just looked at these women who had taken her in without hesitation, who had made space for her at their table and in their lives, who had shown her what family was supposed to look like.

“Are we saying grace?” Harper asked, shooting Nadia a pointed look.

“Do youwantto say grace?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then we’re not saying grace.” Nadia passed the potatoes to Astoria. “Tell me about this art exhibition.”

Astoria explained while they filled their plates—the artist's vision, the installation pieces, the partnership with local environmental organizations. Miller added details about the legal work Astoria's foundation had done to secure funding, and Harper asked surprisingly in-depth questions about the artist's process.

“I’d like to see it,” Nadia said when Astoria finished. “If you don't mind us being there, that is.”

“Of course I don’t mind.” Astoria felt something warm expand in her chest. “I'd love for you to come. Both of you.”

“We’ll embarrass you,” Harper warned.

“You won’t.”

“We might ask the wrong people the wrong questions.”

“Then I’ll enjoy watching that.” Astoria met Harper’s eyes across the table. “Please come. It would mean a lot to me.”

Harper’s expression shifted, something soft breaking through the dry humor. “Alright, we’ll be there.”