Chapter 8
* * *
The afternoon light slanted across my bedroom, turning the dark wallpaper into a wash of color.
The team had scattered for a rare day off—Kevin parading his wife through the farmers’ market like a prize he’d finally earned, David driving upstate for a weekend with his daughter, Jennifer vanishing to a spa with the explicit warning that unless Elion was on fire, she was unreachable.
As for me: steam, heat, and the sweet curl of vanilla in the air. Water slid down my arms and legs in even ribbons. Tonight was the night. My heart fluttered as I soaped and exfoliated, each motion a plea that dinner would go the way I needed.
“Are you almost finished in there?” Candace called from my closet, hangers clacking in a restless symphony.
“I said I could dress myself,” I muttered, stepping out of the shower—jerking back as her head popped around the doorframe.
“You smell good already.”
“Candace!” I snatched a towel from the warmer and wrapped it tight. “You said you’d stay in the closet.”
“Nobody puts Baby in the closet,” she replied, perfectly deadpan.
“It’s a corner.”
“Same thing.” She shrugged and held up two dresses and a scrap of fabric that didn’t qualify as clothing by any standard. “Now be helpful. We have options to assess.”
“I hate this one,” I said, pinching the red dress she’d bullied me into buying four years ago. “It itches. And it shows everything.” I grimaced. “And not in a good way.”
The next option was a sheer black slip better suited for a private audience.
I gave her a flat stare. “That’s not clothing.”
“It would be for me.”
But you’re not her, the voice cut through.
“That’s a problem for a different day,” I commented dryly. “Why is that even in my closet?”
“Maybe the universe is telling you something.”
“The universe can mind its business.”
“You’re no fun.”
“I’m plenty of fun,” I countered, pointing at the slip like it was Exhibit A. “I just prefer things that cover skin.”
Candace huffed but lifted the third dress—a black, silk-draped piece that cinched at the waist. Elegant. Understated. Actually wearable.
My fingertips brushed the expensive fabric. I’d bought it the year Elion finally found its footing. The memory flickered then dimmed.
“This one works.”
“It’s the only one,” she said, smug. “The others were red herrings.”
A laugh slipped out as I blotted my curls dry. Each spiral bounced back into place like it had a mind of its own.
“How are things with Garrett?” I asked, shaping one curl around my finger.
She perched on the counter, legs swinging. “Better, I guess.”
“You guess?” The same answer she’d given every time she went back to him.
“He agreed to therapy. Made the appointment and everything.”
“That’s good,” I said, surprised. “When do you go?”
Her face fell. “It was supposed to be yesterday. He said something came up at work.”
Work. Garrett hadn’t held a real job in years. First an influencer, then a philanthropist—with her money—then a freelance visionary and self-proclaimed marketing guru.
“I’m sorry.” I kept my tone light. “Are you rescheduling?”
“He wants to wait until things settle down.”
“Sure,” I said plugging in the diffuser. “And what’s he doing now?”
She shrugged. “Something in finance.”
I didn’t bother responding. The diffuser drowned out the need, bathing the room in coconut and vanilla. Ten minutes later, my curls were glossy and full.
Candace lifted the black dress from the hanger. I took it and slipped into the closet.
When I stepped out, her face lit up.
“Holy shit, Em. You look incredible.” Her grin widened. “If we were lesbians, I’d ruin your life.”
My cheeks flushed. I moved to the mirror, smoothing the dress over my waist where the silk draped gracefully.
“This does look good,” I admitted.
“He’s going to have a heart attack,” she said, then paused. “Does it freak you out? That you haven’t even seen him yet?”
“Not really. He hasn’t seen me either.”
I painted on a deep red lip, hand surprisingly steady for the nerves jumping in my veins.
“I don’t know how you do it. What if there’s no attraction?”
“Then there isn’t.” I brushed mascara through my lashes. “It’s gone deeper than that, anyway.”
Candace snorted. “Tell that to Tinder.”
We laughed. The sound bouncing off the tiled walls.
“I think I’m ready,” I finally announced, doing one more hair shake.
“You’ve been ready. You’ve just been admiring yourself.”
“I don’t blame me,” I said, catching the curve of my hips and the swelling of my breasts in the mirror. “Even my ass looks great.”
Candace whistled. “He’s going to want to eat dessert off that thing.”
I shot her a look. She breezed past it, like every other one in our almost thirty-year history.
“Perfume,” she called as I moved toward the door. “Use the vanilla one with spice. Sex Goddess or whatever.”
“It’s just Goddess,” I corrected, misting strategic points—throat, wrists, hair… behind the knee.
“Whatever it is, it smells heavenly.”
Minutes later, we both listened as each floor chimed—ten… nine… eight… countdown to something that felt bigger than dinner.
I turned to Candace. “You didn’t have to come.”
“Please.” She gave me an affronted look. “And miss seeing you off for your first big-girl date?”
I was still rolling my eyes when the lobby glowed with golden sconces and polished floors. Outside, the city surged—horns, laughter, Friday night alive in the air.
Harold waited by the car, door already open. “Evening, Ms. Sinclair,” he greeted. “Special night?”
“She has a date,” Candace answered, beaming.
Harold smiled—small but sincere. “Good for you.”
I bent to take my seat, Candace’s hand sliding in at the last moment, slapping my ass with a laugh. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”
The door shut on her cackle, sealing me inside the car.
Without her noise, the world sharpened. The engine’s shifting gears. Pedestrians mid-conversation, mouths moving behind glass. My uneven, too loud heartbeat.
The voices stirred, slippery and cruel.
Hope he shows up. You won’t survive another disappointment.
Minutes later, Marina’s sign appeared, warm light spilling from the windows, pooling across the pavement as the car slowed to a stop. I exhaled once, settling myself, then stepped out and walked toward the entrance.
The smell hit first—garlic, basil, wine, bread. Low jazz drifted beneath candlelight. Rough brick walls and shelves lined with old bottles. Small tables tucked into alcoves like secrets.
The hostess approached. “Good evening. Do you have a reservation?”
“Yes, under Read. Party of two.”
“Right this way.”
I followed her through the tangle of the room, past figures pressed close in conversation, into a corner where candles flickered in their brackets.
A small bouquet waited on the table—jasmine and gardenia, tied with silver ribbon. A tiny handwritten note folded in front. For you.
I traced a petal, savoring the soft scent.
A waiter approached, order book in hand. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“A glass of pinot noir, please. And water.”
“Of course,” he said with a dip of his chin. “I’ll be right back.”
When he left, I checked my phone.
Two minutes.
I smoothed a curl behind my ear, dabbed at my lip color, patted away the damp sheen at my temple.
He’s going to hate you.
The waiter returned moments later, setting the wine and water before me. I took a steadying sip.
Conversation carried faintly from the front of the alcove—the hostess greeting someone, followed by a deep male timbre.
Footsteps belonging to long measured strides approached. My spine straightened on instinct, breath lodged somewhere beneath my ribs.
Through the greenery, I caught the shape of a tall figure in a dark suit. Broad shoulders. Familiar posture.
Too familiar.
No. You’re imagining it.
Another stride. Another flicker of recognition.
He turned the corner.
Candlelight caught his profile. My lungs locked. Surprise shattered across his features and disappeared just as fast, leaving a small, guilty curve at his mouth.
“Hello, Emma.”