Free Skinny Bitch Gets Hitched by Kim Barnouin

flesh and blood. “I keep forgetting what’s vegan and what’s not.”
    Avery saved me from schooling her. “Keira, vegans don’t eat anything that comes from an animal, and that includes dairy, which includes milk, which is turned into butter or cheese.”
    I needed to get back into the kitchen before I said something that would get me in trouble. “Well, let me get started on another plate of the fettuccine,” I told Dominique.
    â€œOh, don’t trouble yourself,” she said. “I had two bites, and that’s really all I allow myself of overly rich food. But on the next order, remember that a toothsome pasta is neither too soft nor too firm. And, sweetie,” she whispered, “the salmon walls are a bit too orange. A more subtle shade would work better. And the silverware could be a hair heavier. Just a hair.” She smiled at me.
    I had spent hours torturing the paint mixer at Home Depot to create that exact shade of shimmery persimmon. “Perhaps it’s a generational thing,” I blurted out.
    She fixed a death stare on me. “Yes,” she drawled out. “It’s like I always say. Youth is absolutely wasted on the young.”
    Zach was staring at me with an expression that implored, Not. Another. Word.
    I forced myself to smile and headed back into the kitchen. The moment I stepped inside the noisy, bustling space, I felt instantly more at peace.
    â€œI will keep my mouth shut. I will keep my mouth shut,” I said to my sous chef, Alanna. “I will slowly count to five.”
    â€œI won’t even ask,” Alanna said, sliding mushrooms into a pinging hot pan.
    I counted to five. I breathed. I focused on the next orders, pouring olive oil in a pan to help my vegetable chef keep up with the demand for the roasted vegetable skewers.
    â€œClem? You okay?” came Zach’s voice from behind me.
    I closed my eyes for a second. No way would I admit—even to myself—that his mother had gotten to me. I turned around and smiled. “I’m fine. No worries. Go finish your dinner.” I gave his hand a squeeze.
    â€œClem. You’re forgetting that I know you.”
    â€œThe pasta was perfect,” I whispered, hating how stung I really felt. “I made sure of it.”
    â€œI’m sure it was. She’s just . . . difficult. Look, you’re my brand-new fiancée. She’s my mother. Just ignore her when she gets to you. Don’t even bother engaging. Okay?”
    For a second, as I looked at Zach, this guy whom I lovedso much, I felt all the anger whoosh out of me. But a moment later, it was back.
    I motioned for one of the McMann twins to take over my pan. “Zach, if she insults me, I can’t just not say anything.”
    â€œYou can try. For me. ‘Letting it go’ is how she and I manage to have a relationship. If I want her in my life—and I do—I need to accept her. When she crosses a line, believe me, I tell her.”
    His expression changed for a second, and I realized he was talking about the incident that had blown up their relationship a few years ago. She had crossed a line—I had no idea over what. And he’d told her. The result? They hadn’t spoken for three years.
    â€œI have to pick my battles, Clem. That means letting go of what’s really just nonsense.”
    Letting it go wasn’t in my vocabulary, though. Since Zach and I had been together, I’d listened to his stories about his mother, how difficult she was, how long it had taken him to accept that she was who she was. That meant not jumping on every misstep she made. But my motto was more along the lines of Start as you mean to go on.
    â€œI’ll try,” I said. “But just like you don’t expect her to change who she is, don’t expect me to change who I am.”
    â€œI don’t want you to change,” he said, pulling me close. “I love you just