I don’t have to lean in to hear.
“Mysisterswent to the parade,” Sofie says casually. “Which changed brunch to dinner. Five o’clock.”
“That’s good,” Claudia replies. Then, without missing a beat, “You should invite your father. No reason for him to be alone.”
Sofie stiffens.
Just a fraction. A micro-pause. Her shoulders lock before she smooths it out, a smile already back in place.
“Oh, he’s fine,” she says easily. “He’s got people there.”
People. Not family.
“You good?” Faulker asks, calling my attention back to them.
“Are you?” I snap and don’t mean to. He chuckles as he hands me a glass of wine, and I scowl at him, “Wine?”
“It’s a holiday, shut up and pretend to be less of an ass.” Then he nods to Sofie’s entourage. “The redhead, she looks familiar?”
I know that tone, he’s asking if he or I have fucked her. It’s not a team rule that we don’t hook up with the same girls, but in undergrad at Yale, we… shared the women who wanted to be with both of us. We’ve not done that since, so now it’s an unspoken rule. “Not to me.”
“She’s an Icehouse girl, yes?”
“She may have been there last night with Fairfax, but she’s not a regular to my knowledge.” His lips tip up. “Not here,” I warn. “Not now.”
“I’m pretty sure I know her, little wild one.”
“She’s Fairfax adjacent. I wouldn’t be dipping into that again unless you plan to disrupt the proverbial apple cart at home with your fiancée.”
Marshall nearly chokes, “You’re engaged?”
Faulker rolls his eyes, “Betrothed… ish.”
“What in the eighteenth-century bullshit is that?” Marshall laughs.
I smile thinly. “It’s how people like Faulker say ‘this is not a love story.’”
Faulker lifts his glass, perfectly unimpressed. “For the record,” he says dryly, “it’sFaulker von Hohenwald,ofHohenwald Estate.” He pauses just long enough to make it even more ridiculous. “Do try to bow appropriately.”
Marshall stares. “You cannot be serious.”
Faulker’s lips tip up. “I never am.”
That’s the actual truth.
“Sounds more Harry Potter than royalty,” Marshalls says. I know nothing of this Potter, so the subject is not of interest.
While Marshall bombards him with questions, I glance over and see Deacon adjust Savannah’s blanket, thumb brushing her cheek in a way that’s unconscious and very real. Lydia leans in to murmur something soft. Maya laughs quietly.
The picture is complete.
Kyle Dingy is not here. This room is absolutely for him. For the record. For the photos that will circulate. For the story that will stick. Because Kyle wanted nothing to do with Savannah when it mattered. And now, suddenly engaged to a woman whose father owns the LA hockey team, he wants proximity. Optics. Redemption without effort.
This shuts that down, and Sofie Fairfax is making it happen.
We take our seats, the table filling with low conversation, glasses catching light. Savannah ends up on Deacon’s lap, tiny hand curling around his finger like she’s claiming him. He lets her. Doesn’t correct it. Doesn’t joke it away. He wants this, maybe even more than he wanted to move from second back to first line.
Before the first course arrives, Deacon stands.
