“Perfect. I’m starving.” Giuseppe raked the bottoms of his feet over the mat before strolling into the kitchen area. He fished something out of his back pocket and thrust it into Jesse’s hands. “Here.”
Jesse arched an eyebrow. “What’s this?”
“Arthur’s inviting you to a party.”
Jesse blinked a couple of times, stunned. Giuseppe had blurted out this life-changing statement with complete casualness, as though such a thing wouldn’t land in Jesse’s ears like a spark onto a heap of blast powder. The subsequent explosion caused Jesse’s thoughts to fragment into what felt like one hundred tinier thoughts, each whizzing through his consciousness so fast that he could barely even register them properly.
Arthur was inviting him to a party? Where? When? Why?
Also, Arthur had spoken to Giuseppe? And Giuseppe hadn’timmediatelypunched Arthur in the nose? Or maybe Giuseppehadstruck him. Maybe Giuseppe had broken Arthur’s nose but had still taken the envelope from him in the end.
While Jesse was busy trying to contend with the flurry of questions inside the confines of his head, Giuseppe looked up from his soup and snorted a teasing laugh.
“I think you’re supposed to open it.”
Jesse’s eyes fell to the folded-up paper. On the front was his name—Mr. Jesse O’Connor—written in barely legible script that had to have been Arthur’s, though the man surely couldn’t have scrawled that chicken scratch on the rest of the invitations. It would have invited ridicule.
Ridicule.
Instantaneously, the memory of that stupid, terrible evening came back and forcefully pushed every other thought out of Jesse’s head. Shame crept up the back of his neck, turning his ears and face hot.
What was wrong with him? He shouldn’t have been hoping for reconciliation. Arthur had insulted him. Arthur had been more concerned about what Mr. Russell had thought of him rather than how Jesse might have felt from being called a “random man” and subsequently being told that he was neither poised enough nor polished enough to even come inside to warm up by the fire. Why should it have mattered that Arthur was inviting him to a party? It wasn’t as though Jesse should—or evencould—go. Jesse could only imagine the way that such an event would inevitably unfold. He would arrive at the party in his best suit andstill, he’d stick out like a sore thumb. And that would be the thing—theverything—to make Arthur realize that Jesse was too far beneath him for them to continue seeing each other. Either that or Jesse would feel so Goddamned humiliated comparing himself to the other guests that he’d bolt for the door, thereby obliterating his chances of ever being with Arthur himself.
Scowling, Jesse walked over to the trash. He tossed the invitation into the bin without even opening it. Giuseppe sprang up from the table.
“You have to at least read it,” Giuseppe argued, taking it back out.
“Why?”
“Because the man waited for me for God-knows-how-long in the blistering cold this morning so that he could ask me to get it to you.”
Jesse shifteduncomfortably.
“Well, that was his choice, wasn’t it? Why should I care if he had to be chilly for a little while? Actually, I’m sure he was plenty warm in that expensive overcoat of his.”
“Come on, Jess,” Giuseppe implored. He held out the invitation. “Just open it. I promised him that I’d make sure you’d read it. Don’t turn me into a liar. I thought we were friends.”
Jesse snatched the invitation back and tore it open. He nearly burst out laughing when he saw the intermittently faded text. It looked as thoughArthurhad been the one to print it.
Jesse’s stomach tumbled. Holy hell, Arthurhadprinted it, hadn’t he?
“Did Arthur, uhm, say anything unusual when he handed it to you?” he asked.
“Not really. Only that he’s smitten with you. Not that it’s unusual that he likes you—you’re lovely enough, I suppose, not that I’ve ever been interested in climbing into your bed myself—but I thought it was bold of him to talk like that in the middle of the steel mill. Lucky for him, it was loud in there, and none of the fellows I work with would ever bother someone who looked like him, even if theyhadheard him, what with his fancy clothes and everything.”
“Right.” Jesse’s throat tightened.He’s smitten with you.He swallowed thickly. “Did he mention whether or not he printed this himself?”
Giuseppe shrugged. “No. Why? Did he print it wrong?”
“Not wrong. Just . . . it’s messy.”
“I’m not surprised that someone like him couldn’t figure out how to work a printing press properly,” Giuseppe replied with a snicker. “Guess Iamsurprised, though, that he’d bother to print the invitations himself, rather than pay someone else for the pleasure.”
Jesse chewed on his bottom lip. He wasn’t so surprised. Arthur really had enjoyed working the Jobber. Jesse tried to keep hisburgeoning smile contained as he began to picture Arthur flinging the finished invitations onto the floor of the print shop. He read on.
Mr. Arthur Hughes requests the company of Mr. Jesse O’Connor at a party on March 18that eight o’clock in the evening. This event is intended to celebrate the upcoming World’s Fair and acknowledge the tireless efforts of those involved in its planning. Dancing and cards. Come in your finest morning clothes.
Jesse crooked an eyebrow. Finest morning clothes? That had to have been a mistake. Or...
