Page 84 of Suite 7

I delete what I’ve typed.

Vera: Never mind. Forget I asked. Goodnight, Sinclair.

She’s giving me the exit. Folding the question away clean, the way she always does when she’d rather not know the answer yet.

My thumb moves.

Me: Goodnight, Vera.

15 Vera

Thursday night at Maggio’s, the restaurant is warm and close around us, and I’m lying to my best friend. It’s getting easier. That’s what scares me most.

Sloane is telling me about her nightmare client who wants to rebrand their entire company three weeks before launch, and I’m nodding in all the right places, making sympathetic sounds, playing the supportive best friend I’ve always been. While hiding that I’m sleeping with her brother. And that I can’t make myself stop.

“I swear to God, Vee, if this client changes the logo one more time—” She stops mid-sentence, narrowing her eyes. “You’re not listening.”

“I am.” I set my wine glass down. “Client. Logo. Changing things.”

“What’s the company name?”

Shit.

“You weren’t listening.” She leans back, arms crossed, still smiling. “What’s got you distracted?”

My phone buzzes on the table between us. I reach for it but Sloane leans in at the same moment, quick and shameless, her hand coming down on my forearm with playful pressure, not grabbing the phone, just pinning my arm long enough to read the screen.

Her eyes go wide.

She leans back, slow and satisfied, like a cat who has just located the treat she knew was hidden somewhere.

“Gerald,” she says.

“Sloane—”

“Gerald.” She says it again, tasting it, like she’s checking whether it’s real. The triumph on her face is enormous. “That’s him. The mystery man. His name is Gerald.”

“I’m not confirming⁠⁠—“

“You don’t have to.” She picks up her wine, serene. “I was not expecting Gerald. I had him as something architectural. A David. A Sebastian. Something with sharp edges.” A pause, almost reverent. “Gerald is so much better.”

I pull my phone toward me.

On the screen:

Gerald: How are you?

And the thing is — I’d laughed when I changed it. Standing in my kitchen the night after Sloane had called asking about my Thursday availability, realising Kane Sinclair was the first name in my recent contacts and that was a problem. I’d scrolled to his name and stared at it for a long moment, thinking: something safe, something that won’t give anything away if she glances over. And then I’d thought of the cactus on his windowsill, the one I’d named in his home without meaning to, and I’d typed Gerald and laughed out loud, alone in my kitchen at eleven PM.

I’d felt so clever.

Sloane is beaming across the table, delighted with herself, certain she’s finally cracked something open.

And I’m holding a phone with her brother’s name on it, grateful she can’t see past the joke, hating that I needed one.

I type back before I can feel it any more than I already do.

Me: Good. At Maggio’s with Sloane. What are you doing?