FAMILY DINNER, HOLD THE TRUTH
HARPER
Sunday afternoon — the first Sunday after the Grandview Hotel opening — and I’m still not fully functional.
Technically, today is family dinner, something the my family has done for years since my grandmérè relocated her family from Canada to Queens, New York. These dinners aren’t every week, not religiously, but consistently enough that missing one feels like skipping a heartbeat. Whenever we can manage it — schedules, kids, jobs, holidays — we meet at my parents’ house in Astoria.
Margot brings dessert. Amelia brings chaos. I bring wine and emotional avoidance.
It’s supposed to be comforting.
It is not comforting today.
Because I’m in the back of Victor’s town car — his town car — riding to Sunday dinner like I’m someone who belongs in a chauffeured vehicle, when twenty-four hours ago I was almost pressed against him in hotel’s grand opening.
His driver James’ car is crawling through Queens traffic at a stubborn seven miles per hour, but inside the car it feels too warm, too quiet… and far too intimate.
Because I am very aware of my body today.
Painfully aware.
Every time I shift in my seat, tiny aftershocks ripple through me — reminders of how tense I was last night, how close he’d held me on the dance floor.
I can still feel the press of his palm at the small of my back, the solid heat of his chest against mine, the way I’d leaned into him like gravity wasn’t optional anymore.
Not to mention the kiss in the boutique.
God, that kiss had been everything I’d wanted and more.
If only we could repeat it. But for the moment, it’s still with me, like my brain saved it to a private, encrypted folder and refuses to let it go.
I’d been disappointed to wake up this morning to find Victor already gone—attending a brunch business meeting, a cup of coffee waiting for me on the kitchen counter.
And now I’m pretending I didn’t spend half the night alternating between cold showers, denial, and Googling things like “can sexual tension cause prolonged dizziness” and “is it possible to die from wanting your fake husband” when James—Victor’s driver—catches my reflection in the rearview mirror.
"Everything alright, Mrs. Kade?"
I wince. "Harper is fine. And yes, sorry. Just talking to myself."
"My wife does that too. Says it's the only way to have an intelligent conversation sometimes."
“Your wife sounds smart."
"She is. That's why I married her.”
We pull up to Margot's house first—a tidy brownstone that she and her husband Philippe have been slowly renovating for five years. Margot emerges in her standard Sunday uniform: jeans, a cashmere sweater big enough to fit two people, and the expression of someone who has too many damn questions.
Amelia's already with her—she must have come early—wearing a vintage band tee under a flannel jacket and ripped jeans, bouncing on her toes like an overexcited puppy.
They pile into the car, and both immediately turn on me.
"Okay," Margot buckles in, behaving like a vulture circling roadkill. “How was the hotel opening event? Spill.”
“Nothing to spill.”
“You’re lying,” Amelia chirps. “You have your lying face on.”
I don’t have a lying face.
