“Are you blushing?” Joe teased. He put his knuckles under Cal’s chin, tilted his head back,and stroked his thumb over his lower lip. “You know I think you’re beautiful.”
Cal snorted and moved his head away. “You want to get laid.”
“I do. But it’s not hard to get you into bed,” Joe said. “It’s persuading you that I like you that I have trouble with.”
The ghost of a smile tugged at Cal’s mouth. “Maybe I want you to keep trying,” he said. “Now, you going to show me off to all your poshfriends, or what?”
They took an Uber to Charing Cross. Joe claimed his usual spot behind the passenger seat. It hadn’t been that long, but it was already odd to look up and see a face in the rearview mirror that wasn’t Cal. There were compensations, though. Cal slid over the seat and slung a heavy, well-tailored arm over his shoulders.
“Would you be mad at her?” Cal asked. He watched the carscrawl by outside as the driver nudged and edged his way through the traffic. “If she’s not dead?”
There was a question. “Maybe. I suppose I should be.”
“You don’t have to be. Nobody can make you feel something.”
Joe had never considered that before.
The driver dropped them off at the venue, a huge bookstore lit up brightly even as the lights went down. Cal bumped Joe’s shoulder with his asthey went inside. A trail of bright, summer florals and well-tailored suits led up the wide, glass-railed stairs, past stacked walls of brightly colored books and the occasional customer who peeked around aSherlock Holmescover to admire the fashion on their way past.
Bea met them at the top of the stairs. Her dress looked as though it had been poured onto her, liquid gold that dripped downfrom the point of her shoulder to her tanned knees. The perfect arch of her brows rose as she glanced from Joe to Cal.
“So that’s how it is,” she said.
Habit made Joe bristle, his hackles up with defensive paranoia. It took him a second to remember that he didn’t care anymore. Or, at least, that he aimed not to.
“Is Howson here?” Joe asked instead of a sharp denial.
Bea handed him two ticketsand turned to glance across the crowd of bare shoulders and prosecco. Howson might be a well-heeled member of the board now, but twenty-seven years ago, he’d been on the streets with a collection bucket next to Cal’s mother. Before Bea could point him out, Rosie slid up next to her. Her hair was piled up on top of her head, and she was in a simple dark green dress that made her eyes look nearlyas black as Joe’s.
“Rosie,” Bea hooked her arm through Rosie’s. “You remember Mr. Bailey.”
The smile Rosie offered him was uncomfortable, but everything about her shouted that she’d rather be somewhere else.
“Yes,” she said. “I spilled wine on your shirt.”
“No hard feelings,” Joe said. He turned to include Cal in the introductions. “This is Cal Tate.”
Rosie gave them both a brisk nod of herhead, squeezed Cal’s hand when he offered it, and then turned back to Bea. “I have to go. My boss isn’t feeling well. I have to drive her home.”
Disappointment dimmed Bea like someone had installed a switch. “Oh,” she said. “Couldn’t she take an Uber? I really wanted to spend some time with you.”
Rosie’s face shone as she looked up at Bea, but then she bit her lip and tamped it down.
“It ismy job,” she pointed out. “And she’s always been so good to me. I have to go. Call me, though.”
Bea touched the side of her face. “Definitely.”
One last, shy smile pleated Rosie’s lips, and then she slipped away. Bea watched her go and shook her head.
“Oh, I like her,” she said, almost dismayed. “She’s lovely.”
Joe cleared his throat. “Howson?”
The tail of Bea’s dress swung out around herknees like a bell as she turned. “Over there,” she said. “By the window.”
She pointed across the room to a tall man who reminded Joe of nothing in particular…. He was a rather faded man in a well-cut suit that had probably been tailored to fit at some point.
“Thanks,” Joe said to Bea.
