I can feel Tor’s amused grin heating one of my cheeks and Dante’s blistering glare scorching the other. At last Friday’s dinner, I figured out that if my wine ever dipped below the curve of the glass, a server would top it up in under thirty seconds. The conversation was so darn boring that I tested this theory a few too many times, and after dessert, I stood up, buckled on my stilettos, and pulled down the velvet curtain I’d grabbed onto to stop myself from falling. As if the copper curtain rail bouncing off my head wasn’t punishment enough, Alberto is limiting my alcohol intake like I’m a
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