He scoffs, uncrosses, then recrosses his legs. “Sure. If you say so.”
I’m not going to argue with him, because I’m really not. Yes, maybe I am a little distracted, but I have a lot on my mind right now, and not just the image of Story sobbing in my arms, or the feeling of her body fitting perfectly against mine again after so long.
I’m proud of the way we’ve behaved like adults this week. Adults who are friends. I’ve said hello to her twice this week when I’ve dropped Max off at school, and that’s what friends do.
It’s neither here nor there that she’s sitting opposite me right now, directly in my eyeline. Obviously, she’s the one person I’d be looking at the most. If Agatha Chase was sitting there instead of the other side of Miles—which explains why Miles is so close to me, he’s almost on my lap—I’d be looking at Agatha.
I’d be watching Agatha laugh softly at her seatmate, the other reception teacher who introduced herself last week. It would be Agatha quietly tucking her hair back, only for hairs to escape again. It would be the curve of Agatha’s throat I’d see as she sipped from her glass.
It would be Agatha I’d be acutely aware of,notshe who captures my attention to the point I miss everything being said.
“Am I an idiot?” I sigh hard.
“You’re going to need to be more specific, Hen.”
I side-eye Miles. “Why are you here again?”
“I came for a drink. I didn’t know you were having a meeting. But as I’m here, I can remind you all that the charity polo match is the weekend after next.”
I nod. This one I have actually remembered, because I’m playing. Miles, Lando, Alex, and me againstthe visiting team, usually made up of high-profile professionals Miles has corralled. We host one twice a year at Foxleigh Park, and the Valentine match is usually seen as the kickoff to the early social calendar. Therefore, it’s always well attended and raises several thousand pounds.
It’s a lot of fun, and by the end of the day, everyone’s either drunk on love or lots of champagne, though usually both. It leads to excellent donations.
“And then one last item on the agenda, which I’m assuming is why you’re here, Miles.” She looks at Miles, then me, then back at Miles, who puts his hand up.
“It’s me, Mrs. Winston. The better-looking one, remember?”
Across from me, Story rolls her eyes, and everyone else laughs politely—they’ve all been victims of Miles’s joke at least a dozen times. Maybe not Celeste, however, who seems to think it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard.
“Yes, quite, thank you.” He winks at her, and flushed cheeks replace the laughter. Story’s eyes roll even harder. “Anyway, I’m taking the opportunity to remind you that it’s the Valentine Polo Match in two weeks. Tickets will be on sale here, in The One True Love, at The Cupid’s Arrow, and The Beanery. Please encourage everyone you know to come, so I don’t have to don my ponies in pink ribbons for nothing.”
“Wonderful, wonderful.” Mrs. Winston claps, cheery and excited as ever while everyone else looks like they’re losing the will to live and can only be revived with a strong drink. “We shall certainly all be there. Now, if that’s everything, then I bid you adieu. It’s going to be a wonderful event this year.”
There’s the usual cacophony of chairs being pushed back, feet thumping on the floor, and a rush for everyone to get to the bar as quickly as possible.
I could certainly do with a drink myself.
Miles stands, and I follow. “Bar?”
“Lead the way.”
“Hey, Hen?—”
Spinning around, I find Story standing behind me. “Hi, Story.”
She turns to my brother. She’s not so petty as he is that she’ll totally ignore him standing next to me. “Miles.”
“Story.” He shoots her a withering look and promptly walks off, leaving us alone for the first time since she cried in my arms.
“Still annoyed about Annabel, I see.” She tuts. But as she focuses on me, the bravado from earlier in the meeting seems to vanish the longer she pushes nonexistent loose strands behind both ears, repeatedly smoothing her hair down. “So we’re building the booth?”
“That’s what it sounds like.”
Around us, people are still shuffling out to the bar, holding their own conversations, shifting the furniture back, and she’s watching them until her shoulders drop. “Look, I can do this by myself if you’d rather not?—”
“No, no,” I say, firmly. “It was my idea. I’ll see this through.”
Her eyes scan mine, checking if I’m serious. If I really want to spend time with her and whether I think it’s a good idea. She won’t find the answer, because I don’t know myself.
