She was furious. She was containing it well, but he could tell in the way her hands had gotten tense and the expectant arch of her brow. Fuck. He really didn't want this to boil over into a full-blown argument in their parlor. He especially didn't want this to turn into the conversation, the one he'd been trying to get her alone for. Not here, not now. He had to say something that would calm her down. Even if it was... a slight exaggeration of the truth.

"Mi amor," he began, tone beseeching; a fairly transparent plea for her sympathy. "My poor Spanish. I said 'would,' I did not mean 'would.' I meant — I forget the word," (he did not forget the word, but he felt it would help sell this particular story a little more not to come up with it too readily). "Will," he said, in English. "My family will adore you. When they know you. My family, when you meet, they love you." Was it laying it on a bit thick to have entirely forgone the future tense in this last phrase? Maybe; he could only pray it was working.

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