Right in front of Remi, Maeve looped her arm through Andres’s and leaned in close, putting on a syrupy, overly sweet voice.
“Of course he’d make an exception for me,” she purred. “My cousin Andres treats me best.”
Cousin Andres?
Andres froze, thrown by the ridiculous new label.
What role was she playing now?
But the moment Maeve clung to him, she saw it—jealousy, sharp and unmistakable, flaring in Remi’s eyes.
So that was it. Maeve had been wondering why Remi targeted her when they had no history. Now it made perfect sense.
It was because of Andres—this walking disaster of a man.
Maeve had never been the type to swallow a loss. If Remi hated something, Maeve’s instinct was to do it harder.
Clinging to Andres with exaggerated sweetness, she said, “Oh, my leg suddenly hurts. Would you carry me to the table?”
Andres was speechless.
Remi couldn’t take it. “Mr. Andres’s leg is injured, Miss Vance. You shouldn’t make things difficult for him.”
Remi already despised Maeve; now she looked ready to explode.
The next second, Andres tossed the cane aside and scooped Maeve up in his arms.
Remi’s eyes practically shot flames. What was so special about Maeve? Why did Mr. Andres indulge her like this?
His “injury” was superficial—no bone damage at all. Even the cane was just a prop to mislead outsiders.
The dining room wasn’t far. A few steps would’ve done it. But Andres didn’t seem to want to put down what he was holding.
He chuckled against Maeve’s ear. “When the food comes, do you want me to feed you too?”
Maeve blinked up at him with bright, innocent eyes, then licked her slightly dry lips and answered in the same sugary tone, “Yes, Cousin Andres. I’ll wait for you to feed me.”
Desire hit Andres fast and sharp, stealing the air from his lungs.
If the setting weren’t so wrong, he would’ve torn her—along with every last barrier between them—apart.
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