"Until now," he echoes, expression softening.
I take another bite of salad.
"So," he sips his wine, "you are open to the idea of getting to know one another, then?"
I finish chewing and swallow before I speak. "Yes."
He sets his glass down. "Good. That's very good."
We settle into a silence he may find easy, but within a minute, I'd rather throw myself from the window than endure another second of it.
"How was your business trip?" I ask, making conversation. This Iwasn'tsupposed to ask, but Atty's not here to stop me, and the flicker of frustration that flits over his face makes me feel eons better.
"It proved a little less fruitful than intended," he admits. "A competitor in my field secured adealon a contract I had my sights set on before I could make a better play for it."
It's been wild seeing all the press coverage of the theft at the Matisse. I didn't think we'd hear much about it over here, but every day more and more people seem to be talking about it. I don't have socials, but Maisie said it's all over her Instagram feed, too.
"Oh." I try not to look too smug. "That's too bad."
Ambrose sighs. "It's all part of the game, and I always have the last laugh."
Not this time, motherfucker.
"About my mom," I change the subject, "if it's too painful to talk about, you can tell me to shut it, but I'd love to know more about her."
Another Atticus-designated 'safe and expected' question.
His gaze drops to his virtually untouched salad. "I won't tell you to 'shut it', but," he says, clearing his throat. "It was a longtime ago. I miss her—Christ, what I wouldn't give to see her again…but, time does heal all wounds, as they say. Let's see, what can I tell you…"
He mulls it over, with eyes cast toward the ceiling. "She was young when we met. Well, I suppose we both were, though she was nearly eight years younger. Lied to me about her age at first."
He chuckles and gets a faraway look in his eye. "She lied about a few things back then. Not just her age, but also her pedigree. She'd had me believe she was some media heiress whose family owned a second home on the Costa Brava where we met."
"But she wasn't a media heiress?"
"Not even close." He smirks. "She was a girl from Ohio backpacking through Europe on a shoestring budget, wearing clothes she 'borrowed' from the clothesline of one of my friends. I recognized the dress right away, you see. Played along, though. We spent weeks together. I met her every day to walk the coastline. We ate tapas at all the finest restaurants. Drank wine on the beach until dawn."
"Sounds so romantic."
It does. He paints a pretty picture. Woven with intrigue and interest. Almost real enough for me to believe any of it actually happened.
Something tells me it's all bullshit, but I smile dreamily anyway, resting my chin on my palm to listen.
Ambrose nods. "She came clean, of course. Thought I'd never want to speak to her again, but…by then, I already loved her. When she told me she was set to fly home in less than a week, I proposed right there on the spot."
I gasp. "After only a couple of weeks?"
He shrugs, lifting his wine again and gesturing for service to clear away the first course, which neither of us ate much of. "When you know, you know."
"She sounds like such an interesting woman. Backpacking through Europe and lying about her identity. Sounds like something out of a movie."
"And she would've loved to hear you say it." He laughs. "She always loved a good spectacle, my wife. Lived her whole life as if she were the star in some film only she read the script for."
I let my face fall. "I wish I'd gotten to meet her."
His lips purse, and his gaze grows distant as if he's thought of something. "Your, um, what is it?" He snaps his fingers. "Fall break? You have that now, yes?"
I nod. "It's all this week."
