“It’s big enough,” I murmur, staring at the expansive French chateau-style mansion. Fifteen thousand square feet, maybe more, I’d guess.
I scan the entrance as we approach, the way Lance taught me. At this point it’s habit, looking for pale eyes in dark corners, and blond hair gleaming under lights. But it’s only tuxedos and ball gowns and waitstaff, and I push the paranoia down where it can’t show on my face.
Through the crowd, I spot Tyler Bault—Rosalie’s brother and Lance’s cousin—leaning against a pillar, nursing a drink. His hair is longer than it was in the tabloids from when he was the headline after getting shot. His eyes scan the entrance with the same restless energy I’ve seen in Lance. When he catches me looking, he stiffens, and then his gaze bounces to Art, and they do a chin nod to each other, Tyler raising his glass in a small salute.
“Ready?” Art squeezes my hand, and I think he’s nervous. Like this matters. LikeImatter. Or maybe he’s just on edge about his father.
“Ready,” I lie.
We walk in and heads turn. I feel the stares. They’re curious, appraising, maybe even openly judgmental. I’m the girlfriend from theRag. The bartender from the wrong part of town. The one photographed with Lance Calloway. The nobody Art Penngrove upended his world for and then stashed away like a bad habit.
Art’s hand tightens on mine, and he leans in. “Ignore the vultures, baby. Just smile.”
The first hour is a blur. Art stays by my side, attentive in a way he hasn’t been since Boston. He gets me champagne. He laughs at my jokes. He brings up small memories and little moments of intimacy that would have made my heart race a few months ago. I get introduced to people whose names I file away for safekeeping, and his hand is steady on the small of my back the entire time.
Everyone loves him.
It’s disorienting, watching people gravitate toward him. Faces lighting up when he approaches, leaning in when he speaks. Men clap his shoulder. Women touch his arm and laugh too loud. Even the servers stand straighter when he passes.
Art Penngrove, holding court. The prince everyone wants to crown king.
He plays the part effortlessly. A smile here, a handshake there, remembering names and asking about children. The kind of charisma you can’t teach.
I used to love watching him work a room. Used to feel proud that out of everyone, he chose me.
Now I’m watching a performance and wondering if I was ever meant to see backstage.
“Ginny!” Juliette cuts through the crowd, Roman a half step behind her. She’s stunning in soft pink, black hair swept up, and she pulls me into a hug like we’ve known each other for years. “You came. And you wore the teal.”
“Felicity will make you her new show pony,” Roman adds.
“I’d let her,” I say, and they both laugh.
Roman exchanges a look with Art I can’t quite read, but when their eyes meet, the temperature drops significantly, and I wonder why in a room full of important people who seem tolove Art, the people who I’ve found most important don’t seem to share the sentiment.
Felicity. Now Roman. Even Juliette.
“Your father’s looking for you,” Roman says to him. “Something about a toast.”
Art’s smile tightens. “Duty calls.” He presses a kiss to my cheek. “I’ll be right back and take you to meet him.”
He disappears into the crowd, and Juliette loops her arm through mine. “Come on. You look like you need something stronger than champagne.”
Two drinks later, Roman’s in the middle of a story about hiking a trail in Verona County and losing his balance trying to paint something up high.
Juliette giggles. “You did not swing like Tarzan, you liar.”
“I find your lack of trust hurtful,” he replies, leaning in, “and a little hot, to be honest. Are you asking me to prove myself?”
“I’m asking you to not be annoying.”
He beams. “You’d get so bored if I did that.”
“Roman did actually have to swing from a branch,” Merrick slips into our circle, drink in hand. My chest warms. I haven’t seen him in a while, but his presence is always calming to me.
“See?” Roman says. “You need a high-maintenance lover. It’s time you accept it, Little Rose.”
“He screamed, did he tell you that part?” Merrick finishes, his gaze sliding to me with a wink.
