Maybe the watch is the first.
I almost ask him about it, but then the bell above the shop door jingles, and the small group starts to pour inside.
I follow.
The bite of the sharp air is washed away by the heat searing from the radiators.
The shopkeeper attends to Serena at the display. Oliver lingers close to her, since this will definitely be going on his card.
But Dray follows me, three steps behind in this crammed, cottage-like shop. He shadows me through the narrow rows,stopping when I stop, looking at merchandise when I do, and as I draw out the length of a cashmere scarf—a ribbon of snow—he reaches for the shelf above the hangers for the matching gloves.
I don’t argue as he puts them on his card.
I drape the scarf around my neck, swap over the gloves, then follow out of the shop, down the crooked, winding street to ARO—the only restaurant in the village.
It’s a cosy restaurant with golden plates and cutlery. Golden, not true gold, just dipped and painted.
The tables are draped with white linen, the chairs are cushioned with add-ons, and the candles have no fragrance.
It tries to be something it isn’t.
Fine dining.
Upper class.
But the food is still better than the buffet spread in the mess hall, so I order from the menu—generously.
Before the food has even arrived, Serena launches into a tirade, a half-hearted attack on Oliver about his lack of interest in the wedding plans.
The season is coming, right after graduation, and all the aristos weddings are booked weekend after weekend, and the gentry have to squeeze theirs in on the weekdays, since all the wedding nights take place in the rooms at The Videralli Cathedral.
Now that I think on it, I know nothing about my wedding date—so I suppose I stole Asta’s.
That sinks my heart.
Beside me, Oliver jests something about men and weddings, his job is to show up.
Serena laughs a curt, dangerous sound, but I tune out her retort and watch as the server brings over balanced plates on his hands and arms.
Conversation halts as the dishes are set down, and only when the server has refilled our waters then gone again, does Serena turn on Oliver.
Before she can utter a word, he throws a tired look at her. “I trust your taste. As long as you’re not walking down the aisle in a fucking onion, what do I care?”
My eyes widen, and I lock my stare onto my syrup-drizzled French toast, pecans crushed and peppered over the plate.
“I don’t have my mother to help me,” Serena speaks through curling lips, and the danger is prickling around the table. “Forgive me for believing my fiancé might.”
My heart sinks.
My mouth turns down at the corner, and I throw a pleading look at Oliver, to be kinder, to be understanding—
But it’s Oliver, so I’m hoping for too much.
“My mother will be more than excited to help plan—or plan it altogether if you let her,” he adds in a murmur.
But it’s not what Serena was asking for. His support. His companionship.
I suddenly have a whole new understanding of their relationship—their constant fights.
