Chapter 3
Three
“There we go.” Thomas unplugged the flash drive from his laptop. “Every stitch of wedding research we did is on this.”
“Thanks.” John pocketed the thumbnail-sized device.
Early this morning, John texted his brother, Thomas, and his brother’s partner, Logan, to ask if they could dog-sit Ruckus while he and Jane celebrated their engagement with a spontaneous getaway. Once he arrived at their Capitol Hill townhouse, they demanded he stay for a cup of coffee.
“Any dates in mind?” Logan set Ruckus’s water dish on the kitchen floor. “It took forever to nail down a weekend that worked for your parents’ and Thomas’s work schedules.”
The hot mug irritated John’s sensitive blister.
“The thing is…” He never lied to avoid friction. Better to face unpleasantness head-on and deal with the fallout than to keep secrets. “We’re eloping.”
“You?” Coffee lurched from Thomas’s mug. “Why? Have you told Mom and Dad?”
“Not yet. I’ll call them when I’m back.” His parents had never done him the courtesy of announcing their big life decisions with lead time, so he didn’t see why he should. “Jane’s work schedule is unpredictable, so we’re going for it. We leave for Denmark today.”
Logan wiped up Thomas’s spilled coffee. “But you still want to do something stateside? So all your nearest and dearest can celebrate you the way you deserve?”
“Yes, but we haven’t talked about what we want.” John lifted a shoulder. “I’d be happy with a potluck picnic in the backyard. Does one of you want to officiate?”
“Oh, John, no,” Thomas said. “I won’t let you downplay the biggest event of your life. And I can’t officiate since I’m your best man.”
“I haven’t asked you yet.”
Thomas dropped his jaw. “How dare you? And whom else would you ask? If you say Patrick or Timothée, I’ll put you in a headlock until you recant.”
John laughed. “I haven’t talked to Timothée in almost twenty years. Pretty sure he’d turn me down.”
“Patrick, I’ve met.” Logan joined them at the table. “But who’s Timothée?”
“My high school best friend,” John said.
Thomas squeezed John’s shoulder. “My first act of best-mansmanship is to demand you and Jane have dinner with us the second you return from this capricious-but-classier-than-Vegas elopement so we can plan your wedding. No brother of mine is getting married in a barn.”
“I didn’t say barn. I said backyard.”
“Potato, potahto.” Thomas waved his hand. “Rest assured, we’ll help you find the perfect place to host a petite gathering of five hundred.”
“I’m friends with like twelve people. Same with Jane.
” John had met a handful of her work friends, but her best friends lived abroad, and her parents died when she was in her early twenties.
The rest of her family lived in Colorado.
“We’d probably both prefer something more scaled down than your wedding.
Which was great, but the National Cathedral and a splashy reception aren’t my style. ”
Logan rested a hand on Thomas’s drumming fingers. “Something more intimate, then.”
Budget-conscious, more like.
Hanging exhibits wasn’t a lucrative career, but John was happy.
He’d quit corporate graphic design after three soul-sucking years.
Since he’d always been good with his hands, he switched to art handling in his mid-twenties and hadn’t looked back.
His real talent lay in finding the perfect way to support and showcase an artist’s work.
“Talk to Jane,” Thomas suggested. “She might surprise you with what she wants.”
“I will.” He rose to empty his mug in the sink.
“I fully support this whirlwind romance, John.” Thomas flashed him a smile. “Jane’s good for you. You’ve been happier this past year than I ever remember.”
He folded his arms across his chest and grinned. “Because she makes everything better.”
“Aw, away with you.” Logan shooed John. “Back to your bride and your international wedding adventure. We’ll treat your pup to the best week of his life.”
“Thanks, guys.”
John drove his ancient Ford pickup across the city, then stopped for coffee and pastries.
After unlocking the front door, he dropped his keys in the bowl on the console table.
Jane’s weekender bag lay next to the shoe rack.
She’d be home from Muay Thai in ten minutes, enough time for him to pack and call his parents.
The bedroom door swung open. Jane appeared in a navy pantsuit and heels.
“Christ.” He pressed a hand to his hammering heart. “I didn’t know you were home.”
“Sorry.” Jane laughed. “You startle so easily. Are you okay?”
He set the coffee tray on the table. “Fine. Just shaved a few days from my life.”
“They were probably shitty days anyway. Ooh, did you stop at Janti?”
“I did.” Just like most weekends. He wiggled her preferred combination of drip coffee, a shot of espresso, and four raw sugars from the tray. “Here. Are you headed into the office?”
He loved her go-getter ambition. In an industry that risked becoming boring and dusty, she shook up norms with the artists she championed and exhibits she curated. But he preferred more of a heads-up that their plans might change.
“We are headed to the office.” Her silver-and-sapphire ring winked in the sunlight. “I need to pick up a few things for our trip. We’ll head to Dulles from there.”
Relief thrummed through him. “Should I change?”
“Much as I love cargo shorts and movie T-shirts, maybe khakis and a button-down are better?” She sighed at her phone, which was buzzing like a hornet’s nest. “Fucking Rocksy.”
“What?” He unraveled the pastry bag and withdrew a croissant, handing it to her. “Did it set a record?”
“Big-time. It went for three times what I predicted.”
“Isn’t that good?” he asked. “You sound annoyed.”
She ripped the horn from the croissant. “After the winning bid from an anonymous buyer was announced, a mechanism in the frame tipped some kind of acidic solution over the surface. It destroyed the painting. Boy Playing Trombone is now a messy swirl of goo, and people are losing their minds.”
“The blank plywood’s probably worth more now. Infamy is expensive.”
She leaned her hip against the counter. “I bet you’re right. The art world is so weird.”
“Which is why you love your job.”
“I don’t love all of it.” She dusted her hands as a shadow passed over her face. “But I love enough of it to stick around for a while. Let’s load up the car. I already packed your bag.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Her decisiveness was such a turn-on. He glanced at the bedroom. “Unless you want to…”
As she kissed him, her ginger-and-lilies scent swirled around him. “Plenty of time for that in Denmark. I don’t want to miss our flight. Now go change.”
She nudged him toward the bedroom.
“Okay, okay.” He raised his hands. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
His life was amazing.
* * *
While Vivian waited for John to lock up the apartment, she drummed her fingers on her Chevy SS’s steering wheel. She was more of a supercar fan, but she purchased this model because it was (a) nondescript, and (b) had a beast of an engine.
Sort of like her.
John tossed his bag in the back. “Did you remember your EpiPens?”
Depends on what you mean by EpiPens. “Yes.”
“Great.” He buckled into the passenger seat. “I can’t wait to see where you work.”
“Don’t get too excited,” she said. “It’s bland.”
She eased into M Street’s busy traffic flow. DC driving was tricky since she preferred not running over inattentive tourists. As cars pumped through the crowded intersections, she checked her mirrors.
All clear. No tails.
She swerved and laid on the horn to stop a minivan from hitting her in Dupont Circle, aka the fifth circle of hell. She used her defensive driving training more in DC’s nightmare roundabouts than she did while navigating twisty Moroccan streets.
“Will your coworkers be there?” John asked. “It’s like I already know Brady, Kyle, Alaina and Torrey from your stories. Oh, and Beverly.”
“Not sure about most of them since it’s a Saturday.” Vivian chewed the inside of her cheek. He’d meet them soon…in a different context. “But Beverly definitely will be.”
Because Beverly was their polygrapher.
“What about your boss?” he asked.
John sucked in a breath as she whipped a hard left across three lanes of oncoming traffic. She’d survived a white-knuckle drive on Switzerland’s Furka Pass during a snowstorm, so maneuvers like that didn’t bother her, but John’s fear was reasonable.
“Sorry,” she said. “And yes, my boss will be there.”
A sudden move in the rearview mirror caught her attention.
Black Suburbans were a dime a dozen in DC. Diplomats, Feds, people who ordered Uber Black… Still, better to be cautious. Up ahead, the light turned yellow. She slowed to a stop, and the Suburban blew through the now-red light.
Phew, not a tail.
“Good,” John said. “I’d like to meet the person sending you around the world.”
The light turned green. After two blocks, she flicked her blinker and turned into her parking garage. It sat below a brutalist building in which the agency rented space. She reversed into a spot, then puffed her lips with an exhale.
This was it.
In minutes, John would learn she’d been lying to him for this whole year… But he’d get why, wouldn’t he? She side-eyed him. Or would it be too much?
“Everything okay?” John settled a grounding hand on her shoulder. “You seem nervous.”
“I’m great,” she squeaked at a dolphin-level pitch.
What the fuck? Vivian Flint faced steely crime bosses across interview tables. Joked with them, threatened them and usually got what she wanted. She should have been handling this better.
“If you’re having second thoughts, it’s okay.”
And this was why she’d fallen for him. His kindness, his lack of guile, handling her feelings like they were precious—an irresistible cocktail. On her bad days, when her worried heart got the better of her, she suspected he was too good for her.