“Ah.”
“Ah.”Her mouth turns up at the corners, her lips pink and lush in between. “Do you have membership to one of those clubs too?”
“I might’ve walked past a place like that once or twice.”
“Only past? Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”
“Who’d be interested?”
“Me.” She lifts her palm upward, a shrug of sorts. “Because then I wouldn’t be the only one embarrassing myself today.”
“You’ve nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“Debatable.” Her nose wrinkles. She has the most animated face. Odd that it seems to add to her beauty, not detract from it.
“If there’s anyone who ought to feel shame, it isn’t you.”
“When my future holds so many mornings of waking up, seeing your face, and reliving the whole undignified moment again?”
“It’s going to be that kind of friendship?”
“I mean, who just climbs into a stranger’s car?” she blusters on, her cheeks flushing pink. “You didn’t even have candy or kittens!”
“Just enticing lashes.”
“Not helping,” she groans, pressing her hand to her forehead.
“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll remember the experience differently. You’re the most interesting thing that’s fallen into my lap this year.”
“Don’t be nice to me, Oliver. I’m still running on rage and adrenaline. I can’t believe I threw my beautiful shoes into a bush!”
“I’m a firm believer in forgiving those who’ve wronged us.” Her eyes flash gold as they cut to me. “But not until we’ve evened the score.”
“For a minute, I thought I wasn’t going to like you.”
“You already do like me, Evelyn.”
“What I don’t like is being calledEvelyn.” Lowering her tone, she draws out the sound of her name.
“That is not how I sound.” I smile, unable to help myself.
“Isn’t it?”
“Not,Evelyn. It is not,” I say, dropping my tone a little more.
“Everyone calls me Evie.” She adorably scrunches her nose. “Only my mother calls me Evelyn.”
“When you’re in trouble?”
“Oh, I’m always in trouble with Muffy.” As she answers, she rolls her eyes.
“Muffy?” I turn to a harrumph and the sound of crushed paper, Viscount Radler slicing me an unhappy glance over his now-crumpled copy of theTimes. As I turn back, I find Evelyn leaning closer, as though she has a secret to share. I resist the impulse to meet her halfway.
“Does that man have muttonchops?” she whispers, delighted.
“Possibly.” Whereasthisman has the urge to push his hands into her hair and pluck out the pins to watch it curl around her bare shoulders. It’s good that she sits back. “He’s here so often, he’s almost part of the furniture.”
“I bet you’re wondering why she didn’t help me today. My mother, I mean.”
