Vivian laughs, because clearly, it’s a joke, but a pained expression suddenly rips across his face.
“You don’t think I have secrets?” he asks, sounding almost injured.
Damn, well, you do. Too many for my liking, in fact. But the secrets she’s currently thinking of don’t seem to match those he’s now recalling. She studies him; his face remains raw, laying bare something long buried. It’s the same look he gets whenever he mentions his childhood.
“We all have secrets,” she replies carefully.
“True. But some worse than others. As I’ve mentioned, I was an orphan. My mother—she had a car accident, and…Well, after that, I was put in foster care.” He takes a jagged breath. “And there were things I had to do, to survive.”
She nods, and says softly, “I understand.”
He places his hands on the table, his fingers digging into the white tablecloth so hard the tips go white. “But do you? Do you really, Vivian? Tell me.”
It catches her off guard, this intensity—this scrutiny—so she smiles and attempts a joke. “So, what, sharing of secrets is some sort of Knox member-bonding exercise? A team-building experience, like a trust fall?”
But Peter doesn’t return her smile. “Do you want to know what secretsreallyare, Vivian? They’re chips to bargain with; they’re influence; they’re ownership. If I know the worst thingyou’ve ever done—something no one else knows—then I hold a power over you. Some might say I might even own you.”
What are they even talking about anymore? Secrets? Power? Sex? He’s so damn hot; a charge rises between them, like heat waves off a pavement. “What if I haven’t done anything that bad?” she replies in a low, sultry voice.
He holds her gaze for a moment, and then he erupts in laughter. His demeanor instantly changes, his face loosening like a slack rubber band. “Well, maybe you wouldn’t be the best candidate for the Knox.” He winks and takes a long pull of his wine.
A hush falls over the crowd, and Peter’s attention shifts to somewhere beyond Vivian’s shoulder. She turns to see an elderly man being ushered across the restaurant. He’s wearing dark jeans and a dress shirt. Brown loafers on his feet. Grayish-white hair crowns his head, and a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles rest on his nose. He uses a cane to walk; its elegant wooden base is topped with an ivory-horn handle carved in the shape of a flower head.
The way people are acting, it’s as if British royalty has just entered the room. Adoration on faces, hands reaching out when he passes, eager to simply touch the clothing the man wears.
As he settles into his seat, opposite Oliver, the man nods back at Peter and then gives Vivian such a discerning look she feels like he’s looking through to her insides.
It’s the man she saw in the courtyard, from the guest bedroom window.
“Graham,” Peter confirms, in a low voice, once Graham’s attention has turned elsewhere. “This is the first time he’s out and about since the heart attack.”
Gluttonous King Henry VIII himself, Vivian thinks, but says, “Glad to see he’s doing better.”
Peter wears a displeased look, as if he himself may not be as glad.
A low level of chatter resumes throughout the restaurant.
Jerry the wrestler clears their appetizers, and then a few seconds later, Eduardo swoops in with their entrées. “Can I get you anything else?” Eduardo asks, but Vivian barely registers what he asks.
Because the girl with the blue hair has just entered the restaurant.
Taylor
As Taylor walks home from work, she keeps replaying the way Peter sought her out. How he wanted to know about her first week. Her opinion on the painting. How he’d thought of her. It makes her feel tingly and alive—and she wants to tell someone.
Sam should be back by now from his Miami weekend.
Taylor knocks on his door a few times. When Sam finally answers, he keeps the door only partially open.
“Hey,” he says, with a grin. “How you doing?” Meanwhile, he points inside his apartment and mouths,Miami Boy.
Oh. Apparently while Sam was done with Miami, he wasn’t done with Miami.
“I’m good,” Taylor replies, smiling. She waits; this is where he invites her in, has her meet Miami Boy. Where the three of them crack open a bottle or two of wine and order takeout.
“Good,” Sam repeats. “Sorry, can I…Can we talk later?” He jerks his head to the side, meaning,I’m busy.Or, rather, We’rebusy.
“Yeah, yeah, of course.”
