“You look lovely tonight, Genevieve,” Roman says, clearly trying to cut through the tension.
“Thank you, Roman.”
“Doesn’t she?” Art’s hand slides higher on my thigh. “I’m the luckiest guy here.”
Across the table, Lance’s jaw flexes. He reaches for his water and takes a slow drink, his eyes fixed somewhere past my shoulder.
The first course arrives. Soup. I pick up the correct spoon and try to eat, but I’m too nauseous to stomach anything.
Under the table, something brushes my ankle.
I go still.
It’s barely there. The edge of a shoe against the side of my foot. It could be accidental.
Lance reaches for the breadbasket his face perfectly composed, and tears off a piece without looking at me. His foot stays where it is—a warm, steady pressure against my ankle that sends electricity up my spine.
Art’s hand tightens on my thigh at the exact moment Lance’s foot slides up my calf.
My heart lodges in my throat, and I let out a shaky breath.
“So, Lance,” Franklin says from farther down the table. “Art tells me you’ve been keeping busy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Idle hands.” Franklin lifts his glass. “Your father always said you needed structure.”
“He did say that,” Lance replies.
“Smart man, Craig.” Franklin sips. “Shame about everything else.”
The table goes quiet. Juliette’s fork pauses in midair. Roman’s jaw tightens. Even Merrick takes a slow drink.
Lance says nothing.
Under the table, I hook my ankle around his.
His eyes lift to mine for the first time since he sat down. A single second of contact that hits me like lightning. Then he’s looking at his plate again, but his calf presses warm against mine, and it sends a shock sparking from my toes to my teeth.
Art’s thumb slides higher on my thigh, almost to the hem of my dress.
“You’re tense,” he murmurs against my ear.
“I’m fine.”
“Relax.” He presses a kiss to my temple. “I’ve got you.”
No, you don’t.
The second course arrives. Seared fish with microgreens. The food presentation is phenomenal, but I eat without tasting, hyperaware of the two points of contact splitting me down the middle.
I’m two women at once. The one Art sees and the one Lance knows. The fraud and the real thing. Both of them eating a perfectly seared fish, trying not to fall apart.
Juliette leans across Roman. “Gin, you should try this wine. It’s from a vineyard near Florence that Roman promised to take me to.”
“She’s got champagne,” Art answers for me.
Juliette’s smile doesn’t waver, but something sharpens behind her eyes. “And she’s got a mouth and a brain, too.”
