“No girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Boyfriend?”
Jonah shook his head. “Unfortunately no. My parents would’ve liked that, though. It bothers them that I don’t bring men home like I did girls when I was younger—” He cut himself off with a shake of his head. “Sorry. That was more revealing than I intended it to be.”
Sacha shrugged. “It makes sense to me.”
“It does? How so?”
“They probably think you have some internalised homophobia. You should not be shy about bringing your men home, Jonah Gray, if they are nice men, no?”
Jonah snorted, his mind tracking back to the last date he’d had, if you could call it that. The man had been well-dressed and rich, but closeted and engaged to a girl whose father played bridge with Jonah’s at the exclusive member’s club in Mayfair Jonah had spent his entire adult life avoiding. The man had fucked Jonah seven ways from Sunday, but with the prerequisite that Jonah never told a soul. “I don’t meet many nice men.”
“That is a shame.”
“Isn’t it?” Jonah turned his gaze to the ceiling, studying the panels as though they were the most interesting thing in the world. The night was ticking away. With any luck, by the time they were rescued, the limo waiting for him outside would’ve moved on, leaving him no choice but to hope every cab in the city was booked and unavailable. Maybe he could go home, take this ridiculous tux off and spend the night alone in his apartment. The prospect of a lonely night in private was only marginally more appealing than one in public, though, and a heavy sigh bloomed in Jonah’s chest.
He swallowed it down and cast his attention back to Sacha, curious about why he wasn’t doing what the rest of the world did when it had a split second to itself and poking at his phone. “What grand plans are you being kept from? Is there someone waiting for you tonight?”
Sacha shook his head. “No one is waiting to take me to a ball at the Dorchester, or anywhere else. I was going nowhere but home for the night.”
“I’m jealous.”
“You don’t like parties?”
Jonah shrugged. “Not this kind.”
“Shame. I like champagne and those tiny foods…what are they called?”
“Canapés?”
“Yes. Canapés. I like those.”
“You’d like my mother then. She’s obsessed with getting them just right.”
“Is there a wrong type of canapé?”
Again, it was hard to tell if Sacha was being serious. He had the kind of eyes that gleamed with whatever mood he might be in, but that didn’t make said mood any easier to decipher. And, of course, Jonah didn’t know him. Beneath his dry smile, there was every chance he was raging about the half hour he’d lost to Jonah and the broken lift.
Angry men don’t make small talk about canapés.Then again, Jonah hadn’t been expecting to either in any conversation that didn’t involve Eleanor Gray. Like, ever. “Tell you what, if you like them so much you can take my car to the Dorchester when we get out of here and eat all the canapés you desire.”
“You say it like it is a joke.” Sacha’s rakish grin widened. “Like you would not come with me.”
Jonah laughed. “I could do worse for a date, I suppose.”
“You could do much worse, Jonah Gray.”
“You don’t have to address me by my whole name every time.”
“Twice. Be accurate if you’re going to chastise me.”
“Okay. Twice. Whatever. You can just call me Jonah.”
“I like your whole name.”
“I like yours too.”
