Bastian sets down the shell and looks at me directly. His eyes in the warm light aren’t their usual arctic blue but something softer, like the ocean at dusk. “Then we’d better make them count.”
The weight of his gaze is too much. I look away, catch Dante watching us from the corner of the bar with an expression I can’t read.
“Another round?” Dante asks gently.
“I should probably stop,” I say. “I’ve had many oysters. So many oysters. All the oysters.”
“Lightweight,” Bastian teases.
“Not everyone has your cast-iron constitution.”
We settle up—Bastian pays despite my protests—and Dante hugs us both goodbye. “Bring her back, Bash!” he calls from the doorway as we climb the stairs to street level. “She’s a helluva lot easier on the eyes than you are!”
The night air is sharp after the warmth of the basement bar. I shiver, and Bastian’s hand settles on my back again. It’s becoming familiar, that touch. Dangerous in its familiarity.
In the car, I catch him smiling softly, in that way you do when things are just going right and the world feels light and easy and full of hope. When he notices me watching, the smile doesn’t immediately disappear like I would’ve expected. It lingers, soft around the edges, hazy, like butter melting in the pan.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I lie. “Just… I like this version of you.”
His hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles going white for just a moment before he forces them to relax. “Don’t get used to it.”
But the smile stays all the way to my apartment, through his insistence on walking me to my door, up to our awkward goodbye where neither of us seems to know how to end the evening.
I shuffle in place. The concrete below my feet has never been more fascinating. “Thank you,” I finally muster up the courage to say. “For the oysters. And the wine lesson. And saving me from Harold’s wandering hands.”
“All part of the deal,” he murmurs. “Eleven thousand dollars a day, plus protection from creepy investors.”
“And the comprehensive oyster education?”
“That was… ” He pauses, seems to search for words. “That was just because you’d never had them. Seemed wrong.”
“A lot of things seem wrong to you.”
“Most things,” he agrees. “But not this.”
I don’t ask what ‘this’ is. I’m not sure either of us could answer.
“Goodnight, Bastian.”
“Goodnight, Eliana.”
He waits until I’m inside, until he hears the lock turn, before leaving. I press my back against the door and close my eyes, stilltasting salt and wine, still feeling the ghost of his hands teaching mine how to hold a knife, how to find the exact point where resistance gives way to opening.
I’m in so much trouble.
17
ELIANA
cor·ked: /kôrkt/: adjective
1: wine that has been ruined by a faulty cork.
2: when you’ve got a good thing going and something just has to come and screw it up.
The click of the door sounds like a period at the end of a sentence I never wanted to end. I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on my crappy linoleum, still in my shabby little skirt. I lace my fingers in my lap and look at them, half-illuminated by the migraine halo of streetlights through blinds. They’re shaking, I notice, though whether from the wine, the oysters, or the sheer whiplash of the day I’ve had, I’m not sure.
