“Oh, this isn’t art,” Cal assured me. “It’s bullshit.” He leaned in. “I’m told the artist is the son of some social big shot. Trust me, no one is here to appreciate the paintings, they’re here because ofwho elseis here.”
“Who?”
“Rich people,” he said with a snort.
I looked around the room. Not a single person was stopping to take in the paintings. In fact, a lot of people seemed to be either deep in conversation with other people or looking around the room at who else was there. Cal and I may as well have been invisible.
Ralf then appeared, grinning from ear to ear. “What a party, huh? Everyone is here.”
“Seems like it,” I said, shooting Cal a knowing grin.
Ralf clocked it. “Wow, I leave you alone for a second and you’re fraternizing with staff.”
Cal rolled his eyes. “Nice to meet you, Lucie.” And, with that, the most interesting person in the room loped off to work.
“That was pretty rude,” I told Ralf. “He was the first person to talk to me.”
“I’m sure he’s very nice,” Ralf said dismissively, eyes scanning the crowd. “But you have to ask yourself, is it the best use of your time, talking to a waiter?”
“He’s a model too. On a billboard and everything, if anyone bothered to ask.” I downed the rest of my champagne, irritated. “Look, I think I’m going to go.”
Ralf snapped his attention away from the party. “What? Why?”
“Jetlag,” I lied. “Still feeling kind of rough.” I just wanted to be out of this claustrophobic room. I didn’t care what these people thought of me and if Ralf did, then more fool him.
“Okay.” He could tell I was lying, but he escorted me outside to wait for an Uber. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “Maybe when your jetlag is finally done with, we can try this again.”
“Sure.” Although I wasn’t clear on whatthiswas, I knew I didn’t want a repeat of it. Did Ralf think this was a date? As if reading my mind, he leaned in, eyes fluttering shut as his cool lips pressed against mine. I froze in shock.
Ralf stopped, pulled back. “Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “You just look so cute, I couldn’t—”
“No.” I shook my head. “It’s fine.”
Ralf lifted a shoulder, dropped it. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“I’m flattered.” His muted reaction surprised me. He wasn’t embarrassed or hurt, just … accepting. Which was a relief. “You’ve been really nice to me, but I don’t date, especially colleagues.”
“You’re right,” he said with a soft smile. “It is a no-no.” His eyes tracked to something behind me, and I followed his gaze. The gallery had a huge front window that showed its interior and in the crowd was Vivian. Had she seen us? Next to her was a wiry old man, hunched over a cane. Just then she caught my eye and whipped around, back ramrod straight.
“I didn’t know she’d be here,” I said, turning back to Ralf. “Do you two frequently attend the same events?”
Ralf blinked, seemingly caught off guard and again I had to wonder about his and Vivian’s dynamic. They’d both been heading to the same concert on my first week at RJF and now here they were at this random art show. And the sight of her with her fiancé had definitely thrown him off kilter. Was I imagining the indignation that had flickered across his face? At the office she treated him no better than anyone else but then, come to think of it, she did seem to save her most vicious barbs for him. “Come on,” I said. “You can tell me.”
“Tell you what?” he said, with a faint sneer. “We move in the same circles, that’s all.”
“Okay, okay.” I lifted my hands in defeat.
“Coincidence, I assure you,” he said airily. Just then, my Uber arrived, and Ralf gallantly opened the door for me. “Have a lovely evening.” As the car pulled away, I watched as Ralf drew himself up to march right back into the gallery.
When I arrived back at my flat, I slid straight into my pajamas and made a hot chocolate. I decided I wanted to watch a movie, but perusing the TV guide, there was nothing that appealed. It was then I caught sight of my laptop and had an idea. It didn’t take me long to find what I was looking for; Elliot’s movie was the top hit on YouTube when I searched forThe Song of You. Wrapping myself in blankets, I settled down and clicked play. Simple, sweet guitar music accompanied a slow wide shot of a cute little cottage on a suburban street, zooming in through a window to reveal a couple dancing in their kitchen. They didn’t need to speak for me to feel the love blazing between them, the way their eyes fastened upon each other. For the next forty minutes, I didn’t move, could barely breathe. I was hooked, lost in a haze, as Elliot’s short yet elegant movie reached down my throat and squeezed my heart. It felt as if he’d slashed himself open to show the tender and most secret parts of himself, and those parts were sheer poetry. By the time the movie had finished, tears tracked down my cheeks as I ached for the love I’d glimpsed, the type I’d never experienced, filling me with joy and despair all at once.Dazed, I closed my laptop and sat in the dark, my thudding, lonely heart matched by the pulse of New York City.
Chapter Twenty
It was an anxious Elliot that found me in the RJF kitchen the next day. I had taken it upon myself to mix multiple flavors of Cheerios together in one bowl and had yet to decide whether it was the best breakfast I’d ever made or the weirdest. Either way, I was halfway through the bowl when he appeared.
“Morning,” he said. He looked tired, his eyes reddened, hair rumpled.
My initial reaction wasn’t anger or even annoyance. It was relief: relief that he was physically okay and in one piece. I took a second to lower my cereal bowl and compose myself. “What happened yesterday?”
