“I’m aware.”
“But you’re trying.” She touches the side of my arm.
“I’m trying.” I hold her gaze. “That man—Damien—he brings out the worst in me. He reminds me of things I’ve lost, choices I’ve made, people I couldn’t protect. When he showed up tonight, I retreated into old patterns. Distance. Control. Pushing away anything that might hurt.”
“Anything that might hurt you,” she clarifies. “Not me.”
“Both.” The word comes out rough. “Both, Poppy. I pushed you away because I didn’t want you to get caught in something that has nothing to do with you. Something old and ugly and mine.”
“But it does have something to do with me now.” She takes a step closer. “Because I’m here. Because we’re—whatever we are.Partners. Performers. Something more than a transaction, even if you keep trying to pretend otherwise.”
I could deny it. Could retreat back behind the contract, the money, the careful fiction we’ve constructed.
Instead, I reach out and take her hand.
“Something more,” I agree. “Much more.”
She looks down at our joined hands. My fingers are cool against her warmth—they always are—but she doesn’t flinch anymore. Doesn’t tense.
“We’re going to be late for dinner,” she says.
“Probably.”
“My mother will be insufferable.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“And you’re going to spend the whole meal watching the exits and looking for threats you won’t tell me about.”
“Very likely.”
A small smile tugs at her lips. “You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“By who?”
I almost smile. “Various people. Over the years.”
“There it is. The mysterious non-answer.” But she’s laughing now—really laughing, that bright surprised sound that makes something ancient and unused flutter in my chest. “Come on, Mysterious Man. Let’s go be charming for my family.”
She doesn’t let go of my hand.
I don’t want her to.
We head to dinner, which I’m sure will be its own elegant torture.
The restaurant overlooks the ocean—floor-to-ceiling windows that offer spectacular views and terrible sightlines. I count three entrances, two emergency exits, and seventeen places where someone could hide while observing the dining room.The kitchen door opens every four minutes on average. Staff circulate with drinks on predictable patterns.
I catalog all of this while smiling at Violet’s wedding planner, complimenting Catherine’s choice of wine, asking Chris about his time at Cornell.
Once the wedding planning is out of earshot, I ask Poppy something that has been nagging at me.
“Why they didn’t use Sage as their wedding planner?” I whisper into her ear.
“Sage and my sister aren’t that close, and she knows Sage doesn’t believe in true love,” she whispers back. “Besides, someone already booked Sage for this weekend.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Interesting. A wedding planner that doesn’t believe in true love?”
