I nod at him. “Can I have my phone?”
“Only if you promise not to call the Vatican,” he says, but he flags a runner and the runner brings my purse from Pru’s table because Pru has already bribed everyone to keep an eye on our things.
I unlock my screen and look at my contacts. Cayce’s number sits there looking like a dare. I should not. I absolutely should not.
“Don’t,” Pru mouths, eyes gleaming. “Do. It.”
I do.
The phone rings once.
“Hello, Kitty.” His voice is low and clear and exactly the temperature that does things to my spine.
“You are a menace,” I say, loudly enough that the nearest row turns to stare. “And I hate your face.”
“Noted,” he says, amused. “Where are you?”
“At a museum,” I say. “The art is moving.”
“I assume Pru has you,” he says. “And that you’re safe.”
“She has me,” I confirm. “In a cage with men who take their shirts off for democracy.”
“I see,” he says. “Do you need me to vote?”
“No,” I tell him, and then, because the drink unfurls my tongue and I do not catch it, “I need your Jacob’s ladder and your mouth and the way you said good girl when you thought I was going to come apart in a church.”
Silence on his end. Then, quieter, “Caterina.”
“I’m not ashamed,” I say. “You did that. You did it on purpose. You said good girl like it was a name I belong to.” I swallow. The lights turn the world into a warm blur. “I hate you.”
“I hear you,” he says, steady.
“I also want you,” I add. “Frequently. Against my better judgment. I hate that, too.”
A dancer leans down to ask if he can lift my hand. I nod. He kisses the back of my fingers like a courtier and winks at mebecause he is doing his job and because he is not trying to ruin my life.
“What is that?” Cayce asks in my ear, very calm, very not calm. “Who is that?”
“A man who moisturizes,” I say. “Not a threat. He smells like coconut. Do you smell like coconut? No. You smell like expensive soap and the end of bad days.”
“Cat,” he says, and my name in his mouth is like a seatbelt, a kind of safety feature. “Is Pru with you?”
“Pru is attempting aerials.”
There’s a pause while he translates that, and then a sigh. “You’re drunk.”
“Yes,” I say happily. “And I am thinking about your…” I search for a word that won’t get me ejected. “Hardware. And your hands. And your rules. And how I hate being told what to wear and I wore turquoise anyway, so you can bite me.”
“That is definitely on my list,” he says, not rising to the bait. “Licking, too.”
“Also,” I say, because my lungs and honesty have cut a side deal, “I like you a lot. And that annoys me because I was going to give my life to God and now I’m giving it to you and I didn’t get a full debate on the pros and cons.”
“You’ll get one,” he says. “Tomorrow and all the days after.”
“Do not be nice to me,” I say fiercely, which makes zero sense and is the truest thing I have said. “I will cry if you’re too nice right now.”
“I’ll be precise,” he says. “Are you safe?”
