“What’s your favorite, then?” she said.
“The Merchant of Venice,” he replied automatically.
She must have meant the question as some sort of test, because she looked at him with new awe. “And what’s your favorite line?”
He hummed under his breath before answering. “The man that hath no music in himself, nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils.”
She leaned her head against the wall of the kitchen entryway, her smile softer now as she regarded him. “I wouldn’t have guessed that,” she said.
“That so?” He straightened and gave her a teasing lift of his chin. “What would you have guessed, then?”
“Be not afraid of greatness,” she replied, then turned her eyes down shyly.
He laughed. “How much of a narcissist would I have to be to pick that for myself?”
“It’s not so bad!” she said before turning back around and heading to the kitchen. “Tea?”
“Sure, thanks. But only if it’s herbal. And you don’t have to steep it yet. Just give me the tea bag—I’ll do it myself.”
He heard her laugh from the kitchen. “Particular, are you? No worries.”
As she heated up a kettle, Winter sank down onto one of her couches. Her place was quirky but cozy, the kind of space that Claire would approve of. He could see her throwing her head back against the couch and letting herself unwind.
Claire was going to try calling him soon, he was sure of it. He was starting to get used to keeping her out of the loop, and it made him uneasy.
His eyes fell to the hairpin that Penelope had tossed onto the coffee table.You’re wearing it, Connor had said to her when he’d spotted it in her hair at the party. Maybe it had been a gift from him to her.
Winter stared at it a moment longer. If Sydney were here, he knew she’d swipe it, tuck it smoothly into her pocket and act like nothing had happened.
Not that he was Sydney, or a thief. But his gaze lingered on it, along with his recent realization of the mysterious relationship that Penelope had with her accountant. Maybe the pin was nothing—or maybe it was a useful clue into whatever existed between Connor and Penelope.
And maybe being around Sydney was rubbing off on him in the worst ways. Before Winter could think harder on it, he found himself taking the hairpin and sliding it neatly into his pocket, then leaning back on the couch.
A minute later, Penelope came back to him and handed him a steaming mug. “Hope you don’t mind chamomile,” she said, nodding to the unopened tea bag she handed him.
“Almost as good as jasmine.” Winter ripped the paper and took the bag out, then sank it into the hot water. On the other end of the couch, Penelope cradled her own mug carefully and folded her legs up onto the seat. Her hair was pulled over her shoulder in a fat fishtail of a braid, and as she sat, her free hand came up to idly toy with the end of it.
Maybe Penelope was hoping he’d make some sort of move on her. Maybe she just wanted to talk. Her body was angled toward him, butcurled up tightly in a way that shielded her. If Sydney were here, Winter knew she would probably have some kind of analysis on what her posture meant.
If Sydney were here, if Sydney were here—why did she keep entering his thoughts?
“I prefer hanging here,” she said after an awkward pause. “I can only stand being at so many of my dad’s parties.”
Winter removed the tea bag from his mug as the water turned the ideal color and placed it on the small dish Penelope had set on the coffee table. He’d have to be careful how he talked about her father. “This a typical night for you?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Every few nights, at least.”
“Exhausting. Why do you go?”
She smiled, eyes downcast. “Because it makes him happy.”
For a moment, Winter pitied this girl. If circumstances were different, he could see himself being friends with her, talking about poetry and books and their favorite song lyrics, chatting over tea on her couch. Instead, he was about to implode her life, about to take down the father she worked so hard to please.
“And do you just go through your life making sure your father is happy?” he asked her.
She looked skeptically at him. “Don’t judgeme,” she protested. “I saw that video of you partying at four in the morning in Ibiza.”
He flashed her a grin. “I didn’t know you followed me that closely.”
