The warmth of his hand on my bare back.
The rhythm of his heartbeat against my cheek.
The way the chandelier scatters light across the floor like fallen stars.
Whatever comes next—whatever truth he’s about to tell me—I want to remember this. I want to remember what it felt like before everything changed.
CHAPTER TEN
We dance until my feet ache and the crowd has thinned to scattered clusters of the most dedicated partygoers.
“It’s late,” he says finally. “We should?—”
“Yes.”
We make our way through the remnants of the party, collecting coats and making polite farewells. Bianca catches my eye from across the room and gives me a double thumbs-up. Rita Jenkins winks. Mrs. Patterson mouths what looks like “beautiful grandchildren.”
I ignore all of them.
Outside, the night air is cool and sweet, carrying the scent of the gardens. Mal’s car is waiting, and he opens the door for me with a flourish.
“Your chariot,” he says.
“It’s a sedan.”
“It’s a metaphor.”
I slide into the passenger seat, too tired to argue. He rounds the car and climbs in beside me, and for a moment we just sit there, engine running, staring out at the empty parking lot.
“So,” I say. “You promised me answers.”
“I did.”
“Where do you want to do this?”
He turns to look at me. In the dim light of the dashboard, his eyes are very dark.
“Your place,” he says. “If you’ll have me.”
Something in my chest flutters. “For answers?”
“For answers.” A pause. “And whatever comes after.”
I should tell him no. I should insist on neutral ground. Instead, I reach over and take his hand.
“Then drive.”
The cottage is quiet when we arrive.
I unlock the door with slightly trembling fingers—from the evening air, I tell myself, nothing else—and lead him inside. The space feels different with him in it, smaller and more intimate.
“Tea?” I offer. “Or something stronger?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
I opt for whiskey, the bottle a friend left me years ago that I only break out for emergencies. This feels like an emergency.
We settle on the couch, leaving a careful space between us. He accepts his glass but doesn’t drink, just turns it slowly in his hands.
