Her Improper Affair. Shea McMaster

      Like the gentleman he was, he poured her glass and then filled her grandmother’s glass before filling his own with the crisp Chardonnay her father had imported from Napa Valley the year before.

      Her father raised his glass. “To the most beautiful cook in England.”

      Which raised a blush on her mother’s cheek. “Thank you.”

      The next glass up was Paul’s. “To the bride and groom for bringing us all together.”

      “Hear, hear.”

      Not to be outdone, Drew raised his glass. “To our families for their unwavering support. Mum, Dad”—he saluted first his parents, then turned to Meilin’s—“Mom and Dad. We’re blessed to have both sets of you.”

      “Enough with the toasting.” Birdie’s mother laughed. “Eat before it gets cold. And just so you know,” she raised her voice to speak over the sudden clatter of dishes and serving spoons, “the pasta is a lightened up version. Still not completely healthy, but less heavy on the fats. However, there are enough carbs to send everyone into a nice coma for the night to help regulate the internal clocks.”

      Everyone laughed and Birdie helped herself to a large serving of the tossed salad. Paul held the bowl for her; then she turned and held it for Ozzie. Next came the pasta bowl and finally a bread basket. If she ate everything on her plate, indeed, she’d sleep like the dead tonight. Much as she had after Ozzie had finished with her. A shock of electricity sizzled up her finger from where he touched her briefly. The sizzle zipped right up her arm, igniting newly awakened nerve endings. Nerve endings she’d never known could be awakened until Ozzie had touched her.

      The same man who caught the bread basket before it completely left her hand. The same man who wouldn’t look at her now.

      Bastard.

      Diddle with her, then leave her without a word? Well, they’d see about that.