“What do you make of it?”
“Nothing I can use yet.”
“Luca would know what to make of it,” Eamon said.
I raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not being romantic. I’m being accurate. It doesn’t take long to realize that the way he reads people is a professional asset. I’m not sure you’re fully taking advantage of that.” He glanced toward the wing where Micah had gone. “Luca’s part of the team.”
Eamon moved off toward the loading dock. I stayed where I was on the stage, the empty house opening out in front of me, with eight hundred dark seats curving up to the balcony rail.
We’d broken the sightline from that arc to the new mark. Dominic would stand in a slight shadow, six feet from where Henri’s calculation had placed him.
We returned to the house and discussed logistics at the kitchen table for the rest of the evening. Luca came through twice. The second time he let two fingers rest briefly at the base of my neck on his way past.
After nine, Eamon pushed back from the table.
“Dominic’s arts council dinner is tomorrow,” I said.
“I’ll cover him.”
I looked at him.
“You need a break. I can sit through one dinner with arts administrators.”
“Celeste will be there.”
“It will be the perfect opportunity to meet Ms. Hargrove.” He gathered his notes. Then, not quite looking at me: “Sleep.”
“I will.”
“That would be more persuasive from a man who hasn’t been running on four hours since I landed.”
He went upstairs before I could respond. I followed a minute later and stopped by Luca’s room, tapping lightly on the doorframe. He was at his desk and turned immediately.
“Eamon’s covering Dominic tomorrow evening. Are you free?”
He smiled. “Are you asking me to dinner?”
I stepped into the room. Luca rose and joined me. “I am asking you to eat food with me in a location outside of this house, yes.”
He reached out to wrap his arms around my waist. “That’s a romantic invitation.”
“The red beans will keep.”
He kissed me. “I accept.”
Chapter fifteen
Luca
The tomatoes were wrong.
Not bad. Just wrong.
The man behind the produce stand had arranged them in two shallow wooden crates beneath a canvas awning that did a reasonable job of cutting the direct sun. I lifted one from the nearest crate and turned it in my hand. The skin was smooth and bright, but when I pressed gently near the stem end, the flesh gave a little too easily.
“You’re looking for the Creole ones,” the vendor said. “These are Arkansas pinks. They look better than they cook.”
