The venue is packed with attendees and honored guests. Donors, foundation board members, well-known society fixtures. The room pulls us in, everyone wanting a moment with Nick. He handles it with the controlled grace he's learned to wear when the mission demands visibility, his hand settling briefly at my waist as we move through the crowd together. I catch myself leaning into his side without thinking, drawn by the warmth of his body and the steadiness he carries even when the spotlight makes his skin itch.
I spot our friends Jared Rush and his fiancée Melanie Laurent chatting with a small gathered crowd of their own near the tall windows overlooking Fifth Avenue. They’re hard to miss—tall, broad-shouldered Jared with his mane of thick brown hair and devilish grin, and Melanie, slender and sweet, with long, fiery hair and a smile that can light up any room.
"They flew in from Kentucky last night," Nick murmurs near my ear as we approach the couple.
Jared’s fame and notoriety as one of the country’s most gifted—and controversial—painters still cloaks him, but only his close friends, like us, know that the larger-than-life artist is currently battling early-onset Parkinson’s disease. Tonight he’s animated as he regales his current audience with a story that makes the men chuckle and the ladies ogle him with open interest. The steadiness in his posture tells me his latest medications are working. He's holding a glass of wine without a tremor, and the relief that washes through me at that small detail is sharp enough to sting my eyes.
Melanie sees us first, her face opening into a warm, genuine smile. She pulls me into a tight, unhurried hug.
"You look incredible," she says, pulling back to hold me at arm's length. "This dress is absolutely gorgeous. Have you gotten some sun recently?"
"Thanks. And yes, Nick and I just came back from the Keys." I squeeze her hands before turning to Jared, who leans down to kiss my cheek.
"Good to see you, darlin’." His voice carries that quiet hint of southern drawl that years in New York never fully erased. "Mel’s right. That dress on you is working.”
Nick clears his throat. “The dress and the beauty wearing it are spoken for. Not that I need to worry about you anymore, now that Melanie’s tamed you. Mel, always a pleasure.”
“You too, Nick,” she says, smiling as he bends toward her and drops a quick kiss on her cheek.
The two men shake hands and begin trading good-natured jabs. Nick and Jared go way back, years before I met him. To hear either of them talk about it, they’d once been as close as brothers. Their past wasn’t always amicable, but it’s gratifying to see they’ve settled into a comfortable sort of friendship over time.
Jared glances at the slideshow and chuckles. I follow his line of sight and find myself smiling at a photo of Lita and a young, dark-haired boy wearing giant welder’s goggles. “Last time we talked, you said you had a kid at the art center doing metal sculpture and scaring the hell out of Lita."
I laugh. "That’s him. Diego. He's fourteen and yes, he’s very enthusiastic with a blowtorch. Lita would never admit it, but I think she loves him." The memory of that conversation—Jared on a video call, giving me advice on how to mentor a gifted kid with more talent than patience—makes me realize how much I've missed having him and Melanie close.
"Hell of a thing you've built here," Jared says, looking from me to Nick. I get the sense he’s not just talking about the ChelseaRecreation Center or his mother’s namesake art building. "I know you don’t need to hear it from me, Nick, but I’m proud of you."
Nick's jaw tightens, the only sign that the words have hit home. "Glad you made the trip."
"Wouldn't have missed it," Jared says, the hint of his drawl deepening as he reaches over and draws Melanie close. "Take care of each other. The only thing that matters in the end is the person standing beside you through this crazy fucking journey called life."
Nick nods. "Don't I know it."
They step away with well wishes for tonight and a promise to see us at the wedding. No sooner have they gone, than Gavin Castille arrives, champagne in hand, that easy Australian charm already at full wattage. He leans in to kiss my cheek, lingering a beat too long, the way Gavin does everything, pushing just slightly past the line because it amuses him.
"Avery, you look breathtaking." He grins over my shoulder. "Nick's a lucky bastard and he knows it."
Nick growls low under his breath, but there’s not much bite in it. He gives me a look that says he’s not worried about any other man moving in on me when he knows I’m carrying his child and there’s a gold band at home signifying I belong to him and only him from now until death do we part.
I return his smile, reaching over to thread our fingers together. “Nice to see you again, Gavin.”
Nick frowns. “Again?”
“Avery and her beautiful friends stopped by GC today for lunch,” Gavin informs him. “You should come in more often too. Maybe tell your new chef at Vendange to ease up on the competitive espionage.”
“The what?”
“It’s nothing,” I interject, laughing. “Tasha was just trying to rattle his cage today.”
“Oh, it’s rattled,” Gavin says, but he’s grinning so broadly that both of his dimples make an appearance. “If I catch this Isla Shaw person in my restaurant trying to recon my recipes, it’s game on. She won’t know what hit her.”
Nick chuckles, shaking his head now. “I’ll be sure to pass it along.”
“Avery, good luck up there tonight,” Gavin says. “I know you won’t need it.” He glances at Nick. “As for you, just stay close to your fiancée. She always makes you look good.”
“I won’t argue with that,” Nick replies.
The friends shake hands, then Gavin drifts toward the bar, leaving Nick and me alone in the circulating crowd of gala attendees.
