Chapter 2
Two
A couple of Jack and Pete’s guests have arrived ahead of me, and it seems they’ve put them to work already, because it’s not tall, golden Pete who answers the door, or his husband, almost-as-tall, green-eyed Jack, but Donovan Eastman, known as Van to his friends, and Donovan to his besotted boyfriend, Beck Avery, Jack’s cousin.
Van’s got screen-star good looks, which makes sense because he’s an actor, mainly theater, but some commercials and TV spots. He and I hooked up ages ago, but now we’re more like brothers, held together by the glue that is Jack and Pete and their determination to bring all of their friends into the Rosedale lifestyle, such as it is. Van’s still got one foot in the city, like me, but he and Beck are renovating a house together a couple of streets away, and he seems perfectly happy to be in his small-town-domestic-bliss era.
I guess when you find the right person, committing to something that huge makes sense.
Van greets me with a pat on the shoulder and brings me through the light, airy house and into the big white kitchen with dark blue accents. Beck’s at the stove, stirring a pot of something that smells like onions and heaven. Without pausing, he grabs a nearby open bottle of white wine and throws in an enormous glug.
“Kingston!” The way Beck’s face lights up at my entrance might make a guy feel special, except that’s how he is with everyone, even the strangers who come into his cookie shop on Main Street. He’s a fountain of youthful energy and positivity.
I walk around the big kitchen island to give him a buss on the cheek, peer into the pot. “Risotto. How did you know that’s exactly what I’ve been craving?”
“It was Donovan’s idea, and now I’m worried it’s going to be too dry.” Fretting, Beck reaches for the wine again.
“I’m sure it’ll be creamy as sin,” I say, taking the bottle out of his hands and examining the label. I whistle when I recognize the vintage. “If this is what you’re using for the risotto, what are we drinking tonight? I brought a rosé, but nothing on this level.”
“Ask Pete. He picked out the wine,” Van says. “He really wants to impress the guests of honor. He and Jack are upstairs getting dressed.”
“I better check his work,” I say. My friends, decked out as their kitchen is, don’t have a wine fridge, so I head to the regular one while making a mental note for this year’s Christmas present. Luckily, there are several bottles of nice bubbly already chilling. Unless their guests don’t like hundred-dollar bottles of champagne, Pete can’t go wrong. I see some decent reds on the counter, too. My boy’s got this.
“Tell me what’s happening, Van. Haven’t seen you in a while.” I crack the bottle of rosé for an aperitif and pour myself a glass. “Want some?”
Van shakes his head and holds up his beer. “I was in the city last week, but didn’t have time to get in touch.”
“New play?”
“Auditions, mostly,” he says. “But I booked a guest spot on some crime show that shoots in a couple of weeks. And we decided what we’re doing for Shakespeare in the Park at the Art Center this summer.”
“You’re in on that?”
He smiles sheepishly. The man who used to pooh-pooh local theater has become a vocal proponent of the Rosedale Art Center’s theater department. “I’m co-directing with Dulcie. My first directing credit.”
I thump him on the back. “All right. I’ll have to clear my schedule to catch opening night. What are you performing?”
“We’re going to do Much Ado About Nothing .”
“One of my favorites. Can’t wait to see what you and Dulcie do with it.”
“Thanks, Kingston.”
“And how is the cookie business, Beckett?”
Van wrinkles his nose at my use of Beck’s full name. I smirk inwardly. I do it because I’m a literary snob and I enjoy the allusion. And it’s fun to see Van, who used to chase tail like it was his job, get jealous over a simple familiarity. If I don’t have anyone to get jealous over, might as well have some fun with my friends. Besides, Beck is completely devoted to his man.
“The shop is about to celebrate its seven-month anniversary,” Beck says, turning the flame off under the risotto. “And I hired a couple of new people for up front.”
“Nice. How’s your house?”
“It’s a wreck,” Beck says happily, “but we’re almost done with the kitchen.”
“We found mold in the basement,” Van says dryly. “So remediating that is going to be a bitch. But remodeling is a marathon, not a sprint.”
“You’re doing a great job with the place.”
“So now you’ve caught up on us, what about you?” Van asks.
“Same old,” I say, shrugging. I don’t mention my business idea because I want to run it by Jack before I let it out into the wider world. “I had a client debut at the top of the list last week, so that was pretty cool.” Not the first time, but it’s always amazing to be able to make that call.
“Congrats,” Van says. “You seeing anybody?”
The question takes me by surprise, and I stumble over my response. “I—why do you ask?”
“There’s a guy I know who recently moved to the city. Thought you two might want to hang out,” Van says offhandedly.
I feel my eyebrows touch in the middle with how hard I’m staring him down. “You’re trying to set me up?” That’s a first.
Van’s tan cheeks get a shade darker. “Look, if you aren’t interested, no harm. He’s a good guy, though.”
“Attractive?” I ask, still suspicious. I remember Van’s threat to me when I meddled in, scratch that, aided out of the kindness of my heart, his and Beck’s budding romance. He swore he’d retaliate one day when I fell in love. Maybe this is his way of paying me back.
“He’s good-looking,” Van says evasively. “He’s an actor—or trying to be. I think he’s temping right now.”
“Sounds young. You know I’m not really into the Daddy thing.” I touch my tie self-consciously.
“He’s mid-twenties.”
“And you don’t look a day over thirty,” Beck adds with the overconfidence of a twenty-six-year-old.
“Thanks,” I say flatly. To Van, I say, “But no thanks.”
“You’re not dating?” Van asks, sounding surprised.
“I’m—” Again, the question stops me. I struggle to remember the last date I was on. The last guy I hooked up with. There have been men since Sergio, but they’ve been few and far between. I guess I’ve lost my taste for the casual, and the serious is—well, I haven’t met anyone I want to be serious about.
I’m saved from having to explain myself to my annoyingly well-meaning friends by our hosts coming into the kitchen. Jack’s laughing quietly while Pete’s got his hand at the small of Jack’s back. Cleo, their brown rescue mutt, twines around their feet before coming to greet me by sniffing at my purple shoes. I pat her head, then go to the sink to wash my hands.
Turning away from the happy couples gives me a chance to collect myself. I’m surprised to feel this unsettled by Van’s simple offer of an introduction, and the fact that I’m older than everyone in this room, and I’m also the only single one.
How, exactly, did this happen?
My singleness was supposed to be a phase. For years, I embraced dating, hookups, experimentation, infatuation, heartbreak, embarrassment, getting hurt, accidentally hurting others. I’ve had significant relationships—some even lasted a year or two, like Sergio. I’ve been through it all. But singledom has stubbornly stuck to me like a burr in my favorite camel hair coat—unable to be removed unless I cut it out and ruin the coat forever.
But it’s not their fault—my paired-off friends haven’t done anything wrong. In fact, I urged them together, at least in Van and Beck’s case. It’s sweet, I guess, that Van wants to return the favor. But if I know anything at all, it’s that love doesn’t work like that. It doesn’t work on a planned-out schedule or just because you’re ready. I’ve been ready for a long time, and it hasn’t happened.
Maybe it never will.
That thought leaves me cold and I push it forcefully away, drying my hands with more vigor than necessary on a nearby dish cloth. I grin at Jack and Pete, offer to open a bottle of the red to let it breathe before dinner.
Pete comes over while Beck and Jack consult over the timing of the meal. “Hey man,” he says, giving me a warm hug. “Thanks for coming. I really want you to meet Ivy.”
“She new to town?” I ask.
“Been here about a year, I think. She and her boyfriend moved from England.”
“British?”
“Sort of. I think Ivy grew up between New York and London and the boyfriend’s dad is British, but his mom is American. I think they both have dual citizenship.”
“Interesting.”
“She’s intimidating. But I want her for the board. She’s a sculptor, and she’s really good, and she has experience working with other nonprofits. Plus, she has some kind of family money.”
“Sounds like the perfect fit.” Rosedale is full of artists, but not necessarily ones with spare cash to throw support at the Art Center. A board position there usually entails donating something significant to the organization. Pete fits the bill. He started volunteering there, then became a drawing teacher, but when Super Rupert, the middle grade illustrated novel series that Jack writes and Pete illustrates, went big time with a popular TV show based on it, and Pete’s original art also started selling, he suddenly had the means to support the Art Center rather than the other way around.
“Yeah. I’ve approached her about it obliquely, but she didn’t exactly jump at the idea. I thought if we hung out and included her and her boyfriend—he’s an artist, too—in a social way, it might make her more open to the idea.”
“Makes sense. Only been here a year—maybe they haven’t made friends yet.”
“Toby, that’s her boyfriend, has been to some events at the Art Center, but they do kind of keep to themselves.”
“Well, allow me to draw them out,” I say, glad to have a task to distract me from my personal woes.
Pete looks relieved. “Thanks. You’re better at that kind of thing than me.”
I pat his arm reassuringly. “Never fear. Between Beck and me, we can make friends with an angry dog.”
“She’s not angry, just beautiful and classy and intimidating. She kind of gives off Zoe Saldana vibes.”
I smile at my friend’s expression, which has gone back to pinched with nerves. “Pete, she’s just a person.”
The doorbell chimes, echoing throughout the kitchen. The voices around me fall silent and we all look around as if waiting for someone to do something.
“I’ll open the door,” Jack announces. He wipes his hands on his jeans and straightens the cuffs of the hunter green cashmere sweater I gave him for Christmas. The boy needs help dressing.
“I’ll put on some music,” Beck says, taking out his phone.
“I’ll get another beer,” Van says, heading for the fridge.
“I’ll open the wine,” I say, grabbing the opener.
“And I’ll—” Pete stops, looks lost.
I laugh. “Lighten up. It’s a dinner party, not a sales pitch.”
“Right, right.” He smiles at me. “You’re the best, Kingston.”
“I know.” I whip the cork out of the bottle with a satisfying pop as Jack returns to the kitchen with guests in tow.
My gaze lands on the woman, who must be Ivy Miller. She’s probably early thirties, tall, almost as tall as my five-eleven, though a glance at her feet readjusts my estimate since she’s wearing suede boots with heels. Pete didn’t exaggerate—she’s beautiful, with regal posture, creamy brown skin, straight nose, full lips. Her close-clipped dark hair exposes the lines of her swan’s neck and her loose brown knit sweater shows off a well-defined collarbone. She could be a model. Designer jeans that hug her slim hips and chunky jewelry at her wrists and ears complete the look of relaxed elegance. I approve of her style—bohemian but in a polished way.
Jack’s making introductions, which I mostly tune out while I evaluate Ivy’s companion. Her boyfriend, who Pete referred to as Toby, stands a foot behind her, still halfway in the hallway. I have to step forward to get a good look. When I see his face, I find myself glancing away immediately, as if averting my eyes from the sun or a celebrity who happens to be eating a table away. Ivy is beautiful, but this man is stunning .
His complexion is light, not merely fair, but tinted with a kind of glowing light from within, as if he’d been painted in those egg white temperas favored by Raphael that make the subject look smooth and alive. But he’s not a painting, he’s a man, flesh and blood, his full mouth and his light eyes rivaling for my attention. They should be blue, to go with the buttery blond of his lightly curled hair, but they’re actually amber, like a cat’s eyes. It’s hard to say how old he is, but I’d guess at least thirty. His nose is perfectly proportional to the rest of him, uncaringly generous.
I blink and force myself to look away from his face to inspect the rest of him. He’s dressed casually, but not in the carelessly monied way that Ivy is. He’s wearing a plain white button-down that looks like he got it off the rack at an off-brand department store. He’s unbuttoned one button more than the weather calls for, added a shabby tweed sport coat on top, khaki slacks and brown loafers with… my stomach curdles at the sight: white athletic socks.
So the guy dresses worse than Jack. With a face like his, he could probably wear a wetsuit to Le Bernardin and not be turned away.
“...and this is our friend Kingston James,” Pete says. I edge closer so I can offer a hand to Ivy first. I do my signature move—gently turning her hand over and bowing over it instead of a straight handshake. “Charmed, Miss Miller,” I say.
She laughs lightly, “Pleased to meet you, Mr. James.” Her accent is faint, but there.
Toby puts his hand out for a shake, and I hesitate only a second before grasping it and pumping firmly. We make eye contact as he says, “I’m Toby Wheaton. How do you do?”
“Fine,” I say, my gaze sliding away, all of my usual clever rejoinders eluding my tongue as I register the warmth of his dry, strong hand. “I do fine.”
In my peripheral vision, I can see his smile. The crease of his cheeks makes the rosé in my stomach feel like a gin fizz.
“That’s… fine,” he says brightly, dropping my hand. Jack and Pete go about getting the newcomers drinks and I stand there, feeling like I’ve fallen down an elevator shaft.
Of course, the man I’d have this kind of reaction to—instant, electric, and undeniable—would already be taken.