Psy (Alien Castaways #3) - Cara Bristol Page 0,54

a bowl and pressed accept.

“Hello, Mother,” I said when her image appeared on the screen.

She would have grimaced, if her Botoxed forehead would have allowed it, but she had to settle for transmitting disapproval through a glint in her hazel eyes. Checking an ingrained reaction to make myself more presentable by straightening my posture and ponytail, I slouched against the counter and waited for her to speak.

“Am I interrupting anything important?” Her tone indicated she was sure she wasn’t.

“I was testing frosting recipes.” I brushed powdered sugar from my shirt. Dammit! Old habits died hard. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

“I wanted to let you know you’ll be receiving an invitation—”

“I got it. Toni’s getting married. Congratulations.” No doubt Mother considered the engagement her accomplishment. Back when my sister was seeking a law clerk position prior to passing the bar, my mother had arranged for her to meet Phillip through a sorority sister who served on the same charity board as she. Of course, Toni hadn’t let an opportunity slide by.

Unlike me.

“It’s customary to RSVP.”

“I only received the invitation this afternoon!” Opened it like sixty seconds ago.

“I just wanted to ensure you’ll be there.”

“I won’t miss Toni’s wedding.”

“You weren’t at her party at the country club when she made partner.”

Yeah, I’d skipped that. I hadn’t attended a family gathering yet where by the end of the evening my failings as a daughter and human being weren’t dissected and analyzed. I wasn’t a “professional,” I hadn’t married well—or at all—and I had no college degree, not one from a real school anyway. My associate’s in culinary arts from the community college counted for squat.

“I had to work,” I fibbed.

“You couldn’t take time off to celebrate your sister’s success?”

“Did she leave work to attend the grand opening of Your Just Desserts?”

“Your little hobby is hardly the same thing.” Mother’s surgically plumped lips formed a dismissive, but attractive, moue. She was one of Dad’s best patients. His surgical expertise had rolled back time, and people often commented to my mother that she and her daughters could be sisters. If they were really sucking up, they’d joke, “You must be the youngest.”

“It’s not a hobby, Mother. My pastry shop is a business.” You’d think I’d be used to being dissed by now, but it still hurt, so I tended to skip family get-togethers. Once an underachiever, always an underachiever—in their eyes. I’d never been forgiven for my average grades, for backpacking through Europe after high school and coming home with the announcement I’d decided to skip the university, for my inability to hook a monied and/or well-connected husband.

I wasn’t alone in the latter. On Earth, women outnumbered men, so eligible bachelors were few and far between. Men didn’t have to commit to get a woman—so they didn’t. My own brother continued to “play the field,” and my sister was marrying a man thirty years her senior.

Mother sniffed. “Let’s not fight. I called to make sure your schedule is free. You’re not in the wedding, but Antoinette would like all her family to attend the rehearsal dinner. It’s being catered by Chef Francois Bonnet at our Santa Barbara estate. Figure on staying for the entire weekend.”

I hadn’t looked that far ahead, but if I had, I would have planned to ditch the pre-wedding dinner and opt for a drive-by for the main event. I had nothing against my sister. With a five-year age gap, we hadn’t been close as children and never got closer as adults, but she was okay. It wasn’t her fault who her parents were.

“I’ll be there.” I could survive one weekend.

“Excellent. This could be beneficial to you. Quite a few members from the law firm are on the guest list. I’ll arrange for you to be seated next to a good prospect.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“You’re thirty years old, Alexandra—”

“Twenty-nine, Mother.” My birthday was four months away. Until the calendar struck September 5, I was still twenty-nine.

“And it’s time to get serious. I hope you had the foresight to freeze some of your eggs.”

“Oh, for the love of buttercream icing! Stop. Right there. Stop.”

“You’re not getting younger, and someday you might want to have children and make me a grandmother.”

I did want children, and I hated to admit it, but the odds weren’t looking too good, considering the dearth of eligible bachelors in general and my nonexistent dating life in particular. However, if I had children, it would be to suit myself, not my mother. “I’m sure Toni