“One more thing,” I say. “Don’t react to anything he says,even if it’s a lie. I need to hear the full shape of what he’s willing to tell us before we show any cards.”
He studies me for a long moment, something shifting behind his eyes. “Your dad trained you well.”
“You learn a lot being a lawyer’s kid. Turns out it works on boyfriends, too.”
The front door opens.
“Hello?” Art’s voice echoes through the house. “Something smells incredible.”
Cavall lifts his head but doesn’t get up.
Art steps into the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, and holds up a finger.
“Yeah, no, I understand,” he says into his cell, moving past me to do some complicated handshake with Lance. “Tell him I’ll have the numbers by tomorrow. No, that’s not what I said. Just…fine. I’ll handle it.”
He hangs up, runs a hand through his hair, and turns to me.
“Sorry, baby.” A kiss to my temple. “Work stuff.”
“On a Sunday night?”
“Paxton’s party is in a few days, and my dad’s breathing down my neck about Calloway funding. So the only time I have to do my own thing is the weekend. You know how it is.” He’s already looking past me at Lance. “Everything good here?”
Lance crosses his arms. “Sure.”
I catch his eye for a fraction of a second. Steady.
“Dinner’s ready,” I say. “Let’s sit.”
The coq au vin is plated over buttery mashed potatoes, garnished with fresh thyme. Salad, crusty bread from Second Circle, wine glowing dark in our glasses.
Art hasn’t looked up from his phone in three minutes.
Cavall is under the table, his warm weight against my feet. I slip him a piece of chicken, and his tail wags.
“This is really good,” Lance says. “The sauce especially. What’s in it?”
“Burgundy wine. Chicken stock. Tomato paste for depth. The usual.”
“You toast the paste first?”
I stare at him. “How do you know to ask that?”
“We had a chef growing up. I used to sit in the kitchen and watch him cook.”
“Funny. You’d think you’d do it better, then.”
His gaze holds mine, and my stomach flutters.
Art snorts, finally putting his phone down. “Don’t let him fool you. He stayed in the kitchen with Chef Aaron because it was the only place his parents and Beverly never went to berate him.”
Lance’s expression shutters. He looks at his plate.
Something cold slides through me. After everything Lance told me about Beverly and his parents and feeling like a monster, Art just served it up as a dinner anecdote.
“So where were you this week? You were pretty vague on the phone.”
Art takes a bite, chews. “Boston, actually.”
