Chapter 33 Genevieve #2
“I screamed like a man.”
Juliette pats his face. “I’m sure you did, Trouble.”
Watching them together is nice. They’re so clearly in love, and it feels like the room molds around them, effortlessly.
I don’t think Art and I were ever like that, even before.
My gaze flicks around the party, my shoulders loosening, when I see him.
Lance is near the edge of the room, half-hidden by a column.
He’s in a black suit that makes him look like he was carved from shadow.
It’s fitted perfectly to his frame, and there’s a hint of silver peeking from around his neck.
He stands out, even when he’s trying to blend in, and I soak him up, heat sparking to life deep in my abdomen.
He’s not looking at me, but now that I see him, I feel him. Every time I laugh, his shoulders tense. Every time I shift, his eyes flicker toward me before snapping away.
“So that’s what pining looks like,” Merrick murmurs at my elbow.
I nearly choke. “What?”
He nods toward Lance.
“Your boy over there. He’s got it bad.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You can fool most people, Genevieve DeGrance, but not me. Tragic love is my specialty.” He spreads his arms. “Rosebrook Falls is where love goes to die, and I’m the last man standing.”
“Oh my God,” Felicity’s voice cuts in, gorgeous in emerald green. “Merrick’s gonna put that on a shirt someday and sell it to tourists.”
“I might,” he replies. “Speaking of dead love…”
Merrick jerks his chin, and I turn just in time for Paxton to approach with a pretty brunette on his arm.
“Felicity,” he says. “I didn’t realize you were invited.”
Her expression goes flat. “Must we go through this every time?”
“Charming as ever.”
“Someone has to balance out the aggressive mediocrity.”
She gestures at the grandeur around us.
“It’s our anniversary party, Felicity. Perhaps save the commentary for somewhere you’re welcome.”
“You’re right. Happy anniversary. May your next year be as thrilling as your last.” Felicity raises her glass in a toast. “I’m leaving to find the less obnoxious Calloway brother.”
She walks away, and Paxton clears his throat, muttering something to Tiffany about caterers before disappearing into the crowd. But his eyes flick over his shoulder to watch Felicity leave.
Across the room, Alex does the same thing.
“I should find Art,” I say, feeling like I’ve witnessed something I wasn’t supposed to see.
Juliette squeezes my arm. “Come find me later.”
I slip into the crowd, scanning, and I spot Art near the grand staircase with an older man.
He’s tall and silver-haired and has the kind of face that belongs on campaign posters.
He and Art share the same jawline, same posture.
Even from here I can see the way Art’s stance mimics him in almost every way, like he’s emulating him without even realizing it.
His father.
I smooth my dress and make my way over. Art’s face lights up when he sees me, but there’s something tight around his eyes.
“There you are.” He pulls me to his side. “Dad, this is Ginny.”
It feels strange, having been with Art for close to two years, and living in this small town for over one, yet being introduced as though I’m brand-new.
Franklin Penngrove’s gaze slides to me. He’s taller than Art, broader, and there’s a coldness that thins the air.
“So this is the girl causing all the fuss,” he says, looking me over like merchandise he’s not sure is worth the price. “I’ve heard a great deal about you, Miss DeGrance. Mostly from The Rosebrook Rag, unfortunately.”
The way he says my name makes my skin prickle.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Penngrove.”
Keep your voice steady, and your chin up, mon chou. Never let them see you waver.
“Is it?” He tilts his head, cataloguing my dress, my shoes, Art’s hand on my back. “Arthur tells me he gave you a position at that tavern of his. Have you always bartended?”
My gaze slides to Art and then back. There’s no world that exists where Franklin Penngrove doesn’t know my history, but if he wants to play the game, then I’ll wait him out.
“I was a sous-chef, actually. In Boston.”
“A sous-chef.” His eyebrows rise. “And now you’re pouring drinks. Tell me, does it run in your family to give up career ambitions for a man?”
The dig lands exactly where he intended. Art stiffens beside me but says nothing.
“Never for a man, Mr. Penngrove. But for love? That’s worth the world, wouldn’t you say?”
“Mmm.” Franklin swirls his whiskey. “You understand my concern, surely. Every choice he makes reflects on this family. And when I see photographs of his girlfriend splashed across tabloids with his best friend on a park bench, or taking long strolls through town.” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t inspire confidence.”
“With all due respect, I don’t control what the tabloids print.”
“No. But you control how you conduct yourself. A woman in your position should be more careful. For Arthur’s sake, if not your own.”
A woman in your position. Like I’m a liability to be contained.
I wait for Art to say something. To defend me. To push even slightly. But he stands there, hand on my back, rubbing small circles like his touch is enough to soothe the sting.
And I understand with devastating clarity what’s been happening since I moved here. Not just the secrets or the distance. Art has been ashamed of me. Too scared to upset his father. Too weak to choose me over Franklin’s approval.
So why the hell did he bring me here in the first place?
Because he was told to.
My mouth goes sour at the realization. This meeting—this party—just confirmed everything to me, and my gut knows it now with a certainty I’ve been trying to hide from until this point.
There was an outside force that had Art bring me to Rosebrook. And when he got me here, he was too scared of his dad to fully play his cards. And that is the biggest, most bitter pill to swallow.
Art’s in over his head, and I’m the game piece he’s carelessly shoving down to try and keep himself afloat.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.
Franklin studies me. “She’s got spine. I’ll give her that.” He sips his whiskey. “Let’s hope it’s enough to make up for the rest. Make sure you both put on a good show tonight, hmm? Just like we discussed, Arthur. Control the optics.”
He melts into the crowd, leaving me with Art’s hand on my back and ice in my veins.
“I’m sorry,” Art murmurs. He doesn’t look at me. “He’s a dick. And he’s protective of our image.”
“What did he mean ‘control the optics’? Why am I here, Art?”
“You’re here because you’re mine.”
“And because he wanted you to show up with me to combat the tabloids?”
Art’s jaw clenches. “You have to know how it looks with you and Lance.”
“You put us together!” I hiss, pulling my arm free.
And underneath the anger, guilt coils through me, because he’s not wrong about what’s happening, even if he’s wrong about everything else.
What happened last night in Lance’s armchair, against his wall, in his bed…
If Art knew, “how it looks” would be the least of his concerns.
“I put you together for your protection, and to give Lance something to do besides rot down in those fucking cages. Not so you could make me look like a fool.”
I rear back, the word “fool” ringing in my ears.
“Gin, I didn’t mean that.”
He reaches for me, and I step away.
“I need a minute.”
A server appears at Art’s elbow, murmuring about dinner. The crowd shifts, guests drifting toward the dining room in silk and cologne.
Art’s eyes dart between me and the flow of people. I watch the calculation happen in real time, his anger weighed against the optics his father just demanded.
The optics win.
“We’ll talk about this later.” He offers his arm. “Right now, we have a dinner to get through.”
I want to refuse. Want to rip my arm away and walk out of this house and never come back.
But Lance’s voice echoes in my head. You’re the queen. Patient. Waiting. Then you strike. And then my father’s. Never let them see the cracks. Everything stays the same.
So I take Art’s arm, paste on a smile, and let him lead me into the dining room, where a hundred people are waiting to watch us play the happy couple.
Across the room, I feel Lance’s gaze on me like a brand.
I don’t look back.