“Bianca is a treasure and I’ve already promised her backstage passes to something appropriately impressive as a thank-you gift.”
“Backstage passes to what?”
“I’ll figure that out later. The important thing is the gesture.” He sips his own drink—something dark and complicated that probably has a pretentious name. “You look stressed.”
“I’m not stressed.”
“Your shoulders are approximately three inches higher than normal and there’s a tension line between your eyebrows that I’ve learned to associate with impending disaster.”
“You’re observant.”
“I’m interested.” He sets down his cup and moves closer. “What’s wrong?”
The direct question catches me off guard. I’ve spent so long deflecting and minimizing that genuine concern feels like a foreign language.
“My mother’s birthday party,” I hear myself say.
“The famous Carmen Solis.”
“You know about her?”
“Bianca mentioned her too. Also, there’s a portrait of her in your office that radiates intimidation.” He tilts his head. “When is it?”
“Next week. The fifteenth.”
“And this is causing tension because...?”
Because she’ll judge me. Because nothing I do is ever good enough. Because she’ll find some way to make me feel small even as she smiles for photographs and accepts compliments on her accomplished daughter.
“Because she asked if I’m bringing someone.”
Understanding dawns in his eyes. “Ah.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Family usually is.”
“She’s not—” I stop, frustrated by my own inability to articulate. “My mother loves me. I know she does. She just shows it in ways that feel more like evaluation than affection.”
“The eternal pursuit of perfection.”
“Something like that.”
Mal is quiet for a moment. Then he reaches out and takes my hand, his thumb tracing circles on my palm.
“I could come with you.”
My heart stutters. “What?”
“To the party. If you wanted.” His voice is careful, neutral. “I clean up reasonably well, I’m told. And I have centuries of experience navigating difficult social situations.”
“Mal—”
“I’m not pressuring you. It’s an offer, not an obligation. But if having someone in your corner would make it easier...” He shrugs. “I’d like to be that someone.”
I stare at him. At this chaos demon who showed up in my studio with terrible technique and too much money, who somehow became my partner and the person whose presence in my bed felt like coming home.
“You’d willingly subject yourself to Carmen Solis?”
