Page 27 of Mister St. James

He tilts his head, studies me. “Definitely both.”

Halfway through the meal, Maggie brings us tiny shots of espresso and a plate of pastelitos, on the house. She asks in Spanish if he’s a good man, and I answer in the same language that yes, he’s stubborn, and yes, he’s trouble, but he likes me, so what can you do? She nods, satisfied, and tells Aiden (in English this time) that he better not mess up or she’ll feed him to the kitchen rats.

He smiles, and it’s real this time. “Understood, ma’am.”

After we eat, we cut through the park where teenagers are blasting reggaeton from a cracked Bluetooth speaker and a group of abuelas is playing cards under the yellow light of a dying streetlamp. I loop my arm through his and let the crowd swirl around us. For the first time, I feel him relax, his shoulders drop, his eyes linger on the chaos like he’s learning to see the beauty in the mess.

There’s a jazz club on the block, too small for a sign, just a trumpet logo stenciled onto a blue steel door. Inside, it’s standing room only, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, the air dense with sweat and beer and the perfume of cheap cologne. The band is wild: upright bass, drums, a trumpet that screams and then whispers like it knows all your secrets. I wedge us into a corner and let the music wash over, the floor vibrating under our feet.

Aiden’s never danced in public, not as long as I’ve known him. He tries to play it cool, but his foot taps, and every few bars his hips give a micro-shimmy he’s not aware of. I tease him, swaying against his side, and he finally gives in, lets his hands circle my waist, lets the music pull him into orbit.

We dance, or something like it. He’s not graceful, but he’s strong, and he makes up for lack of rhythm with sheer will. When the trumpet player winks at us, Aiden laughs, a deep, open sound, and for a second I forget we’re supposed to be hiding. I rest my head on his shoulder and let the world get fuzzy, the boundaries of the night dissolving into pulse and motion.

We stay until closing. The club empties onto the street, and we spill out with the crowd, sticky with sweat and drunk on the echo of music. He holds my hand, no hesitation, just the warm, certain grip of someone who isn’t faking it anymore.

“I get it now,” he says, his voice low in my ear. “You could never be tamed.”

I lean into him, let my arm snake around his waist. “Good thing you stopped trying.”

He kisses me under the streetlamp, gentle at first, then deep enough to taste the sugar and salt from dinner. People pass by, but I don’t care, and neither does he.

We walk home slow, the night wrapped around us, the city softer than it ever seemed before.

If there’s a game left to play, it’s one we’re both winning.

Chapter fourteen

Integration

Aiden

The table is small, round, and the linen is pressed to molecular precision. I chose this place three weeks ago because of the floor plan the maître d’ emailed me. We are centered in the room, equidistant from the kitchen noise and the bar, close enough to the window that the light would be good. I told myself it was logistics but I have known Marcus Foster for fifteen years and I have never once introduced him to anyone.

Across from me, Marcus pours himself another glass of Bordeaux. He’s built like a defensive tackle and has the easy, predatory calm of someone who’s watched too many people try to fake their way through a handshake. He wears a navy sport coat, open at the throat, and his hair is threaded with more silver than I remember, but the eyes are the same. Dark, sharp, and at this moment, aimed at me over the rim of his glass.

Cat sits to my left. In this context she’s distilled to the purest version of herself, which is the problem. Body angled toward the action, smile always loaded, every line an invitation or a joke. She hasn’t looked at the menu once. Instead she’s volleying stories with Marcus, laughing at his barbs, finishing my sentences when I stall out, and I can’t tell if I want to pull her closer or get the check. She’s in a black dress with a neckline engineered to walk the knife edge between professional and profane, but I can’t stop staring at her mouth. Her lipstick is a deep, damson shade that matches nothing in the room except maybe the bruised color of her wine.

Marcus raises his glass. “To old friends and new blood,” he says, voice pitched so only our table can hear. “And to Aiden, who finally decided to let a woman with a functioning sense of humor into his life.”

I clink my glass to his, then to Cat’s. She winks at me over the rim and downs half the pour in a single, practiced tilt.

Marcus sets his glass down with a thunk, then leans back, draping an arm over the back of the empty chair beside him. “So, Cat. Tell me, what’s it like corralling this one? I tried for years. He’s an unbreakable horse.”

She feigns contemplation, twirling her wine glass between two fingers. “It’s not so hard. I just remind him every morning that the company will run fine even if he takes two hours for lunch.” She winks at me and I am immediately reminded of the indecorously obscene things that happen on those two-hour lunch breaks.

Marcus throws his head back and laughs, a real, booming sound that snaps my mind back into place. “She’s good. She’s very good.”

I allow myself a small smile. “She keeps me honest.”

“Impossible,” Cat corrects, poking me in the side. “You just hide the truth in words with too many syllables.”

I want to throttle them both, but I’m laughing, actually laughing, which is not a thing I do often or well. Cat notices and softens, just for a second, reaching over to squeeze my hand.

Dinner is a blur of stories and competition, each of them one-upping the other. Marcus tells the story of how we met (freshman comp sci seminar, mutual loathing, accidental tequila bender), Cat counters with her own tales of chaos from her undergrad days. It’s like a tennis match, but the rackets are sarcasm and the ball is whatever piece of me they can volley back and forth.

I keep pace, but mostly I watch her. She’s not performing, not like in the office or on stage at the club. She’s just…here. Laughing, teasing, occasionally tilting her head to see if I’m following the thread of conversation. Sometimes I’m not, but she loops me in with a glance or a nudge under the table.

Marcus nods, sobering. “No, in all seriousness, I’ve known this guy since the first day of undergrad. Freshman year he had a single room and still put a schedule on the door. Color-coded. Laminated.” He shakes his head. “No one, and I mean no one, has ever gotten him to loosen up like this.”