Chapter 35
Margot
The car pulls up to Marcelline's, and my heart does this ridiculous flutter thing.
"Everett." I turn to him, already smiling. "This is…"
"Where we had our first date," he finishes, coming around to open my door. "I thought it seemed appropriate."
The ma?tre d' recognizes us immediately, or more likely recognizes Everett and the reservation that probably came with very specific instructions. We're led to a corner table with soft lighting and a view of the city, the kind of spot that feels both intimate and grand.
"You've been planning this," I say as he pulls out my chair.
"I've been thinking about celebrating." His eyes catch the candlelight as he sits across from me. "Seemed like we had a few things worth marking."
The sommelier appears almost immediately with a bottle of champagne - the good stuff, the kind with a label I recognize from magazine spreads about luxury I've never been able to afford.
Everett nods his approval, and we watch in silence as the cork releases with a soft pop and golden liquid fills our flutes.
When we're alone again, Everett raises his glass. The bubbles catch the light, tiny universes of effervescence rising to the surface.
"To great beginnings," he says.
Something in his voice makes my throat tight. We touch glasses, creating that perfect crystalline note, and I take a sip. The champagne is ridiculous, bright and complex and worth all the stories I've heard. I'm ruined for anything else.
Then Everett leans forward, and says it plainly.
"I cleared Paris with HR. You're coming with me."
I set down my glass. "Everett."
"Independent contractor status. Full flexibility for your theater commitments." He's watching me with that expression I'm learning to read. He’s pleased with himself, trying not to show it. "If you still want to join me, that is."
"If I!" I'm already leaning across the table, champagne forgotten, and kissing him.
Right there in Marcelline's with the sommelier probably watching and definitely not caring.
When I pull back, I'm breathless. "Yes. Obviously yes.
But I have questions. So many questions.
What do I need to bring? I mean, I have a passport, thank god, but what's the weather like? How long will we be there? Do I need…"
I stop, because his expression has shifted slightly. Still pleased, but there's something underneath it. Something careful.
"Wait." I settle back into my chair, studying him. "What happened today? At your meeting?"
"Grant tried. The board held." He picks up his champagne, takes a slow sip. That's all he offers, and somehow it's enough. I can read the rest in the steadiness of his posture, the way the tension he carried in earlier has gone.
Relief moves through me, clean and quiet.
"Good," I say.
"Yes." His eyes hold mine. "It is."
I reach for the champagne bottle, suddenly needing something to do with my hands. "Pour us another glass?"
He does, and I watch the way he concentrates on it, making sure each flute is filled just right. Such careful control, even in something as simple as pouring champagne.
When both glasses are full, I take a breath.
"I also have something to celebrate," I say.
His eyebrows raise slightly. "Oh?"
"Vivi wants to fund it. My play." I can feel the smile spreading across my face. "The whole production. Full funding, connections with theaters – both Broadway, Off-Broadway. She's backed some major productions."
He blinks. "Vivi."
"From the spa. The theater afternoon. She's a producer, an investor, the whole ecosystem." The words come faster now, my excitement bubbling up. "She wants to back the entire thing."
"Margot." His voice is warm, genuinely pleased. "That's incredible."
"I know." I take a sip of champagne, let the moment settle.
"So I took the weekend to really think about things.
I received two amazing offers of funding for my play.
Yours and hers." I meet his gaze directly.
"I know you were more than willing and sincere.
But everything with Vivi seemed… serendipitous.
Right place, right time, right connection. "
I pause, making sure he understands. "I've accepted her offer. We'll be meeting with her attorneys when, well, now when I get back from Paris."
The silence stretches for exactly three seconds.
"I get it." He nods. "My money comes with history. Hers doesn't."
Something in my chest loosens. He named it without my having to. I reach across the table and lace my fingers through his. "I'd rather discuss the next trip to the beach house than budgets and unions with you."
He brings my hand to his lips, kisses my knuckles with the kind of deliberate attention that makes my skin warm.
"I agree," he says against my skin.
The waiter approaches to take our order, but I barely hear the specials. There's this energy building between us, the kind that has nothing to do with celebrating professional victories and everything to do with the way Everett's thumb is tracing circles on my wrist.
When the waiter leaves, I look at Everett with what I hope is my most innocent expression.
"Do you think," I ask, "we could get our order to go?"
His eyes darken slightly. "Why would we do that?"
I lean forward, close enough that my voice drops to something just for him. "I just think the celebration might benefit from a change of venue."
For a moment, he just looks at me. Then he's raising his hand, catching the waiter's attention with the kind of subtle command that probably moves mountains in boardrooms.
"Check, please. And we'll take everything to go."
***
The drive back to the townhouse feels longer than it actually is, probably because Everett's hand is on my thigh and my pulse is doing interesting things in my throat.
We barely make it through the front door before he's pulling me close, and he's laughing - actually laughing - against my mouth, something loose and unguarded that I've never quite heard from him before.
His hands find my waist and I'm laughing too, for no reason except that we've earned this, this specific lightness, this version of us that isn't pretending or performing or surviving anything.
"Champagne," he says, voice rough with laughter rather than want. "If we're celebrating properly…"
"Upstairs," I finish, already heading for the staircase.
He catches up to me on the landing, champagne bottle in one hand and two glasses hooked between his fingers in the other. The bag of take-out from Marcelline's dangles forgotten from his other wrist.
"Multitasking," I observe, breathless.
"Executive skill set." He nudges open his bedroom door with his shoulder.
The room is dark except for the city lights filtering through the massive windows.
Everett sets everything on the side table and turns to me.
The laughter has settled into something quieter, but the lightness remains.
It stays through everything that follows.
The champagne left unopened, the Marcelline's bag forgotten, the careful control he usually keeps dissolving not into urgency this time but into something easier.
Joy, maybe. The specific kind that comes from having nothing left to hide.
Later we eat the Marcelline's takeout cold, at midnight, laughing about nothing. His hair is a disaster. My mascara is probably somewhere near my chin. The champagne finally gets opened, and it's perfect, possibly because everything is.
"Do you think," I ask softly, "Paris has food this good?"
His chest moves with silent laughter beneath my cheek. "I think," he says, "we're about to find out."
We touch glasses, bubbles rising in the darkness, city lights painting gold across the sheets.
And wrapped in expensive cotton and Everett's arms, flying to Paris with my play finally getting its chance, I think: This is what great beginnings feel like.
The champagne tastes like possibility.
Like everything's about to change.
Like maybe, just maybe, I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.