He nods, just once, but doesn't ask a follow up question. There's no reason for me to keep talking, except that his apparent disinterest spurs my desire to speak.
"It's for me."
The lack of excitement in my tone should be embarrassing. It should be something I cover up, replace with forced elation. I should, but I don't, because this man makes me feel like I don't have to. Like I don't need to.
His eyebrows lift, eyes widening, silently asking a question.
"The party," I add. "It's to celebrate my engagement." My left hand dangles in the air between us, an ostentatious diamond ring parked on my finger. If it were broad daylight, the rock would sparkle like the surface of the ocean at midday.
The muscles in his jaw flex. He works a palm over the popped muscles, rubbing at them. "Congratulations." Any warmth in his voice before is gone now. He almost sounds defeated, but of course such a thing is not possible. My ability to read emotions is way, way off tonight. Maybe it's the champagne. Maybe it's me.
In the distance, someone yells my name. A man's voice. My jaw clenches, the corners of my mouth climbing, a conditioned response from all the automatic smiles I plaster on my face.
I don't turn to the sound, but Peter does, his eyes tracking, looking for the source.
"That's Duke," I explain. "My fiancé."
Peter rises up from his chair like a red hot poker was pressed to his backside. He whirls to face me.
Ok. Wow. Maybe I'm not so bad at reading emotions tonight. His face looks not only defeated, but stricken.
"What did you say?" he asks tightly.
"My fi?—"
"Never mind," he snaps.
The guy is clearly upset, but there is no way it could be directed at me. Something else has his panties in a cherry-stem-in-the-mouth level knot. Belatedly it occurs to me this guy might've been lying to me. What if Hugo doesn't know him? What if this guy isn't who he says he is? Could he be an intruder? At an olive mill? Who does that? Is an olive thief a thing?
My imagination snowballs.
Dammit. There I go, being too trusting.This guy is going to shank me and hide me in the olives. Which would actually be pretty tough to do because olive trees don't exactly have enough surface area for hiding something. Which means he'd have to cut me up.
Oh shit. I should make a run for it. Except, I don't, because not only have I decided this guy won't actually make me into a kebab, but also, my curiosity about him is insatiable at this point.
He's Hugo's friend, but who is he really? Why does he feel familiar?
I'm dying to get a read on him, but it's impossible because his back is facing me. I watch his shoulders lift, then slowly lower like he's taking a deep breath before he turns around.
The sun sinks fully below the horizon, leaving the sky bruised in deep cantaloupe and aubergine. He turns his head, back lit by the color, his face in partial shadow. "It was nice meeting you, Daisy St. James. I think I'll be on my way now."
Irritation spreads through me. I don't understand what just happened, but my head is spinning, and there is a part of me thatwants to keep him here just a little bit longer. I don't understand that part of myself, but I give in to her.
"What?" I challenge his retreating form. "Let me guess, you've been jilted? Left at the altar? Cheated on by your fiancée? And now you want to get the hell out of here before you get on your high horse and tell me you don't believe in the institution of marriage. Are you saving me from your negative opinion?"
Halfway through my barrage of questions he turned, and now he stares back at me. His arms cross in front of him, biceps popping. His tone is so even, so practiced. "I didn't say that."
"You don't have to." I take a drink from the bottle. "Your body language says it for you."
He moves forward quickly, long legs eating up the space in three strides. A gasp steals up my throat when he leans down, eyes on mine as he swipes the bottle from me. He overturns it, what’s left of the bottle splashing to the ground.
A sound slips from my lips, something between a gasp and a disbelieving grunt. “What the hell?” I watch him closely, unsure of what he might do next.
Instead of standing, he holds some of his weight on the armrest of my chair, leaning closer until his face is a foot away from mine. He could put both his hands on the armrest, caging me in, but he doesn't. His eyes are intense, and he smells of cedar and citrus. So unlike Duke, who wears a ridiculously expensive cologne made by one of the oldest perfumers in London.
Peter levels me with a heavy gaze, eyebrows pinching in the center, eyes squinting with whatever he is about to say. "You don't know me, Daisy St. James, so don't go assuming you can read my body language."
His voice is deep, his chide curling into me, leaving me with the childlike embarrassment that follows an admonishment. Hepushes off the chair and strides away. Indignation darts through me.
