22. Delilah #3
“Somehow, yes,” I answer honestly. “This kind of thing isn’t usually my scene.”
“Not a fan of parties?”
“Well, it’s just that usually, I’d be in the cater-waiter outfit, running around to make sure everyone’s plates and glasses never ran empty.”
He grins. “I’m sure you can agree that it’s more fun on this side of things, yeah?”
“In some ways, yes,” I agree. “But…” I look around and catch half a dozen people stealing curious little glances at me.
Niko leans closer. “But what?”
“I’m just kinda feeling like a fish in a fishbowl, you know?” I turn to face him fully. “Can I ask you something?”
“I plead the Fifth,” he answers immediately. Then his face splits into a grin. “Just kidding. Fire away.” He holds a chicken drumstick in front of my face like a microphone.
I laugh and bat it aside. Then I get serious for a second. “What did he tell these people about me?”
Niko chews thoughtfully. “Nothing.”
“That’s a cop-out answer if I ever heard one.”
“No, really, it wasn’t anything crazy. Your name. That you’d be coming. That you were to be treated well.” He shrugs. “That’s it. Honest to goodness.”
“Then why is everyone acting like I’m…”
“Like you’re somebody?” Niko nods. “Because he brought you.”
“So? I’m sure he brings lots of—”
“That’s where you’re wrong, amiga. My brother has never once walked in here with a woman. Not a single one. He came to my wedding alone. Both of my weddings, actually.”
I laugh before I can help it. “Marriage is a con job anyway.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, sister.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin. “So then tonight, he shows up with a woman on his arm, looking like a bombshell, with a reputation that precedes her? That’s giving everybody the same number at the same time.”
“Number? What number? I don’t follow.”
“‘One.’ That’s the number. And that’s you. You’re at the top of the charts, Delilah dearest. Numero uno. First draft pick. You get what I’m saying?”
I blink. “… Not really, no.”
But Niko just laughs and touches my shoulder in a friendly way. “Ah, well, you’ll learn. In the meantime, just try to relax and have fun. And speaking of fun… Here comes the antithesis of it.”
I follow Niko’s gaze to see Kane approaching.
The room is opening in front of him like it always does. His head and shoulders soar over the rest of the crowd, hair black and shining, his frame broad and strong.
He’s smiling.
Not the sharp little smirk I’m used to. This one reaches his eyes. It changes his whole face.
And by extension, it changes mine.
Heat boils low through my stomach. Even my stupid toes curl inside Ekaterina’s heels, a reaction so embarrassingly romance-novel that I consider amputating them after midnight.
I’m waiting for him.
Eagerly.
Oh, God, the horror.
The room is packed with enough organized crime to require its own congressional subcommittee, and somehow, the dangerous part is the bright leap in my chest when Kane looks directly at me.
Thrilling, whispers one deeply defective portion of my brain.
Concerning, replies the portion that remembers my bakery is collateral.
“Wow,” Niko says beside me. “That’s interesting.”
I tear my gaze from Kane. “Did I say something?”
“Your face did.”
“That’s off-limits.”
“Not in this family.” He eats the rest of his drumstick with perfect serenity.
I elbow him, but my attention has already snapped back to Kane. He is close enough now that I can see the fine black stitching on his lapel.
He keeps coming, eyes fixed on mine.
When he looks at me like that, I don’t feel claimed.
I feel chosen.
But before he reaches me…
… there’s a commotion at the door.
I turn my head like everybody else does.
A woman has arrived.
She’s in the doorway handing off a fur to a coat check attendant. Black dress, wet-look hair pushed back off her forehead.
Tall. Thin. High cheekbones and pouty lips, a face that should be twenty feet high on a cosmetics billboard.
“Alisa,” mutters Niko.
Then he coughs and glances over. I don’t think I was supposed to hear that.
“Should I know who that is?” I ask.
“Nah,” he lies. “Just a regular at these things. She comes every year. Her dad is somebody.”
“What kind of somebody.”
“Oh, just, y’know. Somebody somebody.”
That’s fine. I know how these things go. Didn’t I see a miniature version of this play out at Maison d’Hiver earlier today?
The eyes flocking toward her are proof of what’s coming.
In the end, it doesn’t matter if it’s a Vivian or an Alisa or a nameless saleswoman hawking French couture.
I know what comes next.
So I don’t panic. It’s calm and nothing but calm inside me right now.
I turn my back on Alisa completely and watch Kane’s face to await the inevitable.
Here’s how it’ll go:
First, the eyes will leave. That part happens fast.
Then the smile will die. The one aimed at me? That’s gonna wither up like a dead cockroach.
Then the body angles. One shoulder. One foot.
Until he’s oriented toward this new, beautiful north star like she’s his new center of gravity.
As for me?
I’ll be left behind.
The curvy girl in the corner. Once again a victim of The Shift.