Twisted. (Book Nine)

Five: Meet The Pennythistles.

"Spencer." Mrs. Hastings leaned across the restaurant table. "Don't touch the bread. It's rude to start eating before everyone is seated."

Spencer's fingers released the squishy, buttery piece of ciabatta back into the basket. If she died from starvation before the others got here, it would be her mother's fault.

It was Sunday night, and Spencer, Melissa, and her mother were sitting at the Goshen Inn, a stuffy restaurant inside an old 1700s house that had allegedly once been a boarding house for redcoat soldiers. Mrs. Hastings kept clucking about how nice the surroundings were, but Spencer thought the restaurant was as gloomy as a funeral home. It was definitely Colonial Philadelphia chic, with lots of Revolutionary War muskets mounted on the wall, three-cornered hats tucked into window boxes, and candles in old-timey glass lanterns on the tables. And because the clientele looked as old as the decor, the room smelled like an unpleasant mix of musty basement, slightly overdone fillet mignon, and Vicks VapoRub.

"What's this Nicholas guy do, anyway?" Spencer folded and refolded the cloth napkin on her lap.

Mrs. Hastings stiffened. "He's Mr. Pennythistle until further notice."

Spencer snickered. Mr. Pennythistle sounded like the name of a pornographic clown.

"I know what he does," Melissa volunteered. "I didn't make the connection at the party, but we totally studied him in my entrepreneurs class. He's the biggest real estate developer in the area. The Donald Trump of the Main Line."

Spencer made a face. "So he bulldozes farmland and wildlife sanctuaries to make way for ugly tract homes?"

"He created Applewood, Spence," Melissa gushed happily. "You know, those beautiful carriage houses on the golf course?"

Spencer turned her fork over in her hands, unimpressed. Whenever she drove around Rosewood, it seemed like a new development was springing up. Apparently it was this Nicholas guy's fault.

"Girls, shh." Mrs. Hastings snapped suddenly, her eyes on the doorway. Two people walked toward their table. One was a tall, burly man who looked like he could've been a rugby player in a past life. He had neatly combed graying hair, steel blue eyes, a regal, slanting nose, and the beginnings of jowls. His navy blue blazer and khaki pants looked freshly ironed, and he wore gold cuff links embossed with the tiny initials NP. In his hand were three long-stemmed, dethroned, blood-red roses.

A girl of about fifteen was with him. A velvet headband held her short, curly black hair, and she wore a gray jumper that looked like a chambermaid's uniform. There was a bitter scowl on her face as though she'd been constipated for days.

Mrs. Hastings rose clumsily, bumping her knee on the underside of the table and making their water glasses wobble. "Nicholas! It's so lovely to see you!" She blushed happily as he handed her one of the flowers. Then she gestured around the table. "These are my daughters, Melissa and Spencer."

Melissa stood, too. "So nice to meet you," she said, pumping Nicholas's—er, Mr. Pennythistle's—hand. Spencer said hello, too, though less enthusiastically. Ass-kissing just wasn't her style.

"Very nice to meet you both," Mr. Pennythistle said in a startlingly kind, gentle voice. He handed each of the girls a rose, too. Melissa cooed with delight, but Spencer just twirled it in her fingers suspiciously. There was something about the whole thing that was very The Bachelor.

Then Mr. Pennythistle gestured at the girl next to him. "And this is my daughter, Amelia."

Amelia, whose own red rose was peeking out of the top of her ugly messenger bag, shook everyone's hands, though she didn't look very happy about it. "I like your headband," Spencer offered, trying to be magnanimous. Amelia just stared at her blankly, her lips still a tight, straight line, her eyes canvassing Spencer's long blond hair, gray cashmere sweater dress, and black Frye boots. After a moment, she let out a sniff and turned away, as if Spencer was the fashion faux pas, not her.