“He’s a friend, Mom. We’re not dating.”

“Yet?” she asks, hopefully. “When was the last time you had a boyfriend, darling?”

“Not since Maddy stole the last one,” Blaire replies.

“They were better suited for each other.” Glinda gives her a patronizing look before she turns her attention back to me and looks me over as if I’m an accessory she’s unsure of. “Where did you meet my Care Blaire?”

“I own the bar next door to Buttercream and Booze.”

“Next door to what?” Glinda looks confused.

“My café,” Blaire mumbles.

“Oh!” Glinda claps her bony hands. “So you’re the rival! How fun that you’re here.”

I glance at Blaire, whose lips are pursed. “Thank you for that, Mom.”

“I don’t know if I’d call us rivals. I serve beer and wings, and Blaire serves the most delicious cupcakes in the universe.” I’m not trying to suck up to her mother, but I am sort of sucking up to Blaire. Mostly because I have a feeling that her relationship with her family is complicated. Her mother has basically called her fat and chastised her on her dating habits. In front of me.

I wonder if Blaire invited me so I’d be a distraction of some kind. Or a shield.

“Hmm, she is quite adept with the buttercream and a spatula.” She pinches Blaire’s side. “As is evidenced by all the taste testing we must be doing.”

A man who looks like Hugh Hefner from two decades ago appears in the foyer. He’s wearing a velvet smoking jacket, burgundy silk pants, and black slippers. He’s also holding an unlit cigar. “Blaire! We were wondering when you were going to arrive.”

“Hi, Uncle Lawrence.”

He glides across the room and does the same air-kiss thing as her mother did before he shakes my hand.

“We didn’t realize Blaire was bringing a date.”

“He’s a friend, not a date,” Blaire corrects.

“Well, you’re introducing him to the family so that must mean you’re interested in turning him into your date.” He turns to Glinda. “Doesn’t it, darling?”

“I would agree, but maybe Care Blaire would prefer to keep that little detail to herself in case Skylar gets an idea to steal him away.”

“I guess that means my cousin made it back from San Francisco for dinner tonight.” Blaire smiles tightly.

“You know how she hates missing family events,” Lawrence says.

I can’t tell if they’re joking. Or what’s going on, because Blaire’s mom is now caressing Lawrence’s arm in a way that seems overly friendly for someone who’s either supposed to be her brother or her brother-in-law. This whole thing is hella confusing and eye-opening.

“I thought I heard your voice! How’s my baby girl?” A balding, potbellied man wearing a white linen suit ambles into the room. He looks more like he’s ready for bed than for a Thanksgiving dinner party.

“Hey, Dad!” A huge smile breaks across her face and she opens her arms, wrapping them around his expansive belly.

He kisses her on top of the head and his gaze shifts to me. “You brought a date?”

“She’s telling everyone he’s just a friend,” Glinda supplies.

“Because she doesn’t want Skylar to try to steal him,” Lawrence adds.

“It doesn’t have anything to do with Skylar.” Blaire tries to defend herself, but is interrupted by yet another woman.

“Care Blaire! Please tell me you brought your cupcakes! Gran-Gran has been asking about them all afternoon!”

“Hi, Aunt Nora. I certainly did.” And we go through another round of introductions.

I’m once again confused when Blaire’s aunt moves in beside her dad and pats his belly. I can see the physical resemblance between Nora and Glinda, which I’m assuming means they’re sisters. Either that or they are uncannily similar.

We’re ushered through a massive sitting room, and into the kitchen where everyone dons an apron and returns to whatever station they were at before we arrived. It smells amazing, and the kitchen is insane. It looks like a very high-end restaurant kitchen merged with more gaudy glitz and glamour. Now I need to know what restaurants they actually own, because I’m thinking they must be pretty damn successful if this is their pad.

The sound of mixing, stirring, and chopping is accompanied by orders being given, and in the middle of all of this they’re also trying to carry on an actual conversation. It’s impossible to follow.

Blaire opens a door and searches through the aprons hanging from a hook until she finds the one she wants. She hugs it to her chest before she pulls it over her head and reaches behind her to tie it.

“I can help with that.” I step up and brush her hands out of the way.

She jumps at the contact. “Oh, thanks.” She picks out a black apron and hands it to me, returning the favor. She slips her arm through mine, and tugs so I bend until her lips are at my ear. “I meant to tell you before you met them, but my mom is married to my uncle and my aunt is married to my dad.”

I turn my head to see whether she’s kidding, because that is some next-level fucked-up shit, but don’t take into account how close our faces are, so the end of my nose brushes hers.

“Ah ha!” Someone shouts, startling the hell out of us. “I knew it! You were kissing! Ronan is your date.”

Blaire drops my arm and takes one excessively large step away from me. “We weren’t kissing. I was bringing him up to speed on the family dynamic.”

Aunt Nora claps gleefully. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Then you need new glasses,” Blaire grumbles.

The accidental nose brush incites a ridiculous slew of questions, beginning with how long we’ve been secretly dating, how we met, and whether I’ve ever been incarcerated. In the very short time I’ve been here, I come to the conclusion that Blaire’s family is entertaining, but definitely a whole bag of WTF with a side of this reminds me of a bad reality show.

Another woman who looks to be a couple of years younger than Blaire glides into the room, a well-dressed man lagging behind her. Everyone looks like they’re ready to attend some kind of formal event, apart from her uncle in his Hugh Hefner getup and her dad in his pajama suit.

“Care Blaire! Yay!” She waves her arms in the air like the inflatable balloon guy while she shuffle-runs across the room in her extra high heels and throws her arms around Blaire. She’s at least four inches taller and looks like her last good meal was probably five years ago. I don’t understand how people who cook food that smells this delicious can be that thin. She does the same thing Blaire’s mother did and holds her at arm’s length. “This dress is so cute! Have you gained some weight?”

“At least thirty pounds,” Blaire deadpans. “Madeline, this is my friend Ronan. Ronan, this is my younger, more attractive and thinner sister, Madeline.”

“You can call me Maddy.” She giggles, gives me a simpering look, bats her lashes, and holds out her hand.

I shake it, because it’s rude not to, and bite my tongue, because all I want to do is defend Blaire and give her hell for not doing it herself when I know for a fact that she’s got bigger balls than most men I know.