“I’m sure you do.”
Melanie had finished three quarters of her wine, but the alcohol sharpened the light in her eyes. “She’s just using me, like everyone else,” she muttered bitterly. John cocked his head, listening. “Always ‘yessing’ me and trying to kiss my ass. At first I thought she was gay, but then I found all these erotica novels in her car. Kim’s such a fucking packrat. It’s disgusting.” The bitterness changed her in a way that was more appealing that her faux veneer of self-confidence. A beautiful woman with an ugly soul.
“Sounds fucking exhausting.” He drank the last of his water.
She rolled her eyes, nodding. “Do you want a real drink? I need something stronger.”
“I’m all right. I’m on duty.”
She pushed her thumbs clumsily together, extended her pointer fingers into the sky in the shape of a W. John hadn’t seen that since the playground in elementary school.
Melanie turned to open the fridge again. John wondered if this was the right time, wished he had more experience so he would know he wouldn’t lose this interview thread if he pushed now.
But Katie was waiting at home. Katie, with her long reddish-brown braid that smelled like citrus and sunshine, and her homemade lasagna, and her gentle rolling laugh that couldn’t help but make him smile. He felt tarnished by entering this house a second time, like everything was just slightly mildewed. He had read Dickens in high school, a lifetime ago, but it was hard to get rid of the image of Miss Havisham’s environs. Was that what this place was? The designer living room set, the faux-vintage light fixtures. Maybe they were all something that once was beautiful, now past its sell-by date.
Or maybe not. That chair had felt like heaven. He’d talk to Katie about adding something like it to the wedding registry.
“Mrs. Templeton?” Keep it casual, he reminded himself, as she poured the last of the wine bottle into her glass. “Where is your husband?”
He did not hear a reply, just the sound of the bottle crashing to the polished kitchen, shattering into a thousand tiny shards of crystal. Melanie stood at the counter, her mouth slack, staring emptily at the mess, her posture now limp.
Bazinga.Now he was getting somewhere.
Chapter Thirty
Junior competitions were the best. The participants all had so much energy, little balls of hairspray and mascara writhing and jiving and spinning.
And they were short. Thank God in Heaven they were done by four.
“You ready?” Patrick asked her, high-fiving one of his kids and shaking hands with their parents.
“No.” She pasted on a smile for Lucy Knight, who had come in first in the quickstep. “This is insane. I have never competed with so little preparation.”
He glanced over at her, and he really needed to stop doing that. She could hardly sit still as it was. His gaze on her just made her more restless.
“It will be okay. I’ll catch you if you fall.”
Her heart pounded in her chest. Damn Nigel and his perfect outfit. She could feel all the hairs standing up all over her body, a delicious heat building inside of her.
Shut it down, get it together.
“I’ve got to get ready.” She ignored his questioning gaze and headed upstairs to her room. He would find out soon enough.
****
Patrick wrung his hands and bounced on the tips of his toes. Where was she? He had knocked on the door around five-thirty, offered to get her something to eat, but she hadn’t opened the partition. Patrick had wolfed down a small bowl of soup and an apple from room service, finished gelling his hair and touching up his spray tan. He had forgotten how much grooming was required for a competition, but the routines had come back to him, like they were waiting for him to find them again.
But now he had been biding time for an hour, and he was tired of schmoozing with people who were calling this—somewhat mockingly—“his great return.” He didn’t feel like his smile could stretch any wider. It was making his teeth hurt.
Besides, he really, really needed to talk to Anita.
She had been so jittery all day, unable to meet his eyes, her movements frenetic even as she feigned interest in the proceedings.
Not that Patrick had been any less tense. Adjoining rooms had definitely been a mistake.
Maria St. John was still giving a speech, but he and Anita were up after a group showcase dance honoring Nikita Ivanovna. He saw the six dancers all dressed identically in white-and-gray Standard attire, chattering quietly to one another and waiting in the on-deck area. Patrick checked his phone again. Damn it. No service in the ballroom. Damn hotel ballrooms and their—
“Hey.” Anita sidled up next to him, and his mind went still.
