“Oh, right. Well, she…did this as a favor, so I can’t really ask her to come back again.”
Christian frowned. “That’s a shame. Why am I paying you so much money instead of her?” He wiggled his fingers at Rafael. “I guess you’re the one with the connections. You certainly got the job done, but I think maybe I should be offering a position to Senorita Cameron. She will be at the first party, though, right? To see how it all turned out?”
“I—uh. I don’t know.” Rafael scratched the back of his head as Christian eyed him warily.
“What’d you do?” Christian asked, his voice teasing.
Rafael started, giving himself away. “Me? I didn’t do anything.”
Christian’s tone turned somber as he studied Rafael more intensely. “You break her heart?”
Rafael sighed. This wasn’t a very professional conversation, and it certainly wasn’t something he ever would have discussed with any other client. But Christian wanted to know, and Rafael thought it might be nice for at least one person to be aware of his utter agony. “The other way around, really,” he admitted.
Christian nodded knowingly. “Any chance to win her back? Grand gesture? Anything like that?”
Rafael rubbed a hand against the back of his neck, pretending to think this over as if he hadn’t thought all of it over a million times. “It’s complicated.”
Christian slapped a hand on his back. “It always is,” he said. “But let me know if I can be of use to you.”
Rafael shook his head. “What would you do?”
“Well, I don’t know, really. But I’m one of those men who likes to think they can solve any problem. Love is a little more difficult than most things, though, no doubt about that.”
Love.Rafael had been unwilling to even think the word. Even as Christian stood there considering him, he wouldn’t let it enter his thoughts, wouldn’t give it the opportunity to spark a flame in his brain. That wouldn’t lead to anything good. Only more pain. There was no use even thinking about the possibility of loving Grace. There was no use wondering if he already did.
“Thanks for the offer,” Rafael said, scrambling to think of a way to change the subject. “Didn’t you say you wanted some kind of signature cocktail for the evening? What were you thinking it should be?”
They stepped away from Dora Maar’s almost lifelike eyes, but Rafael could still feel them on him, like she was seeing right through him.
He’d meant it when he said he didn’t know if Grace would attend the first party. She’d been invited and had planned to come before everything had happened, but since they hadn’t spoken, he had no idea if she would attend.
He hoped she would.
He wouldn’t ask, though, or try to convince her. He knew there was no use if she’d made up her mind. And soon he wouldn’t even have the opportunity to avoid her. She would be gone from his apartment, leaving the largest void he’d ever known, and he couldn’t help feeling impossibly dramatic about the whole thing. If only Alma could have witnessed it, she would have been shocked. Her cool, collected, hard-as-stone brother brought to his knees by his own wretched emotions.
There was a light under Grace’s door when Rafael returned from work. Well, from work and the hours-long dinner alone he’d indulged in just to get home as late as he could. He’d hoped she would already be sleeping, which helped to curb the temptation of bursting into her bedroom and trying to convince her to reconsider.
He was quiet in the kitchen as he fixed himself a drink, quiet as he eased onto the sofa, book in hand. Usually, he retreated to his room as quickly as possible, just to limit the chance that their paths might cross, but he let himself linger there, hoping she might emerge and try to talk to him and simultaneously dreading it as well.
He was almost drifting off on the couch when the sound of her door creaking open startled him, and he turned his head to find her there in her hamster pajamas, her hair swirling around her shoulders, her eyes immediately searching for his.
“Sorry,” she almost whispered. “Just getting some water.”
“By all means,” he said.
She padded across the room in her bare feet, and he didn’t bother to take his eyes from her, didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t looking.
She glanced back at him, and their eyes met again. “How are things going with the gallery?” she asked.
He couldn’t help the glare that slipped onto his face, the sarcasm that crept into his tone. “Is this us being normal?”
Even from his position on the sofa, he could see her frown. His words had hit their mark.
“Sorry,” she said. “Should I just get my water and go? I thought you might want to talk.”
He tried and failed to keep his tone even. “What’s there to talk about?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Whatever we used to talk about? Life?”
