Page 86 of Suite 7

“I’m not⁠⁠—“

“Vera.” Her voice sharpens, amused but watchful. “You literally gasped.”

I did. I know I did. Because for one fractured second I saw it play out — her leaning forward another inch, her eyes landing on the face she’s known her entire life, the questions that would follow, the expression that would follow the questions. Everything unravelling right here, in this booth, over a bottle of wine neither of us would be able to finish.

“He’s —“ I force a breath. Try for casual. Probably fail. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

Sloane studies me for a moment. Her head tilts slightly, a flicker behind her eyes that isn’t quite satisfied with that answer.

“You’re being weird about him.”

“I’m not weird, I just⁠⁠—“

“You literally turned green.”

“I did not turn green.”

“Okay, you went gray. Which, full disclosure, is a good color, obviously—” she gestures at herself, “—but not on you, in that context.”

She’s smiling. But she’s still watching me.

“Was that Gerald, again?” she says finally. “Vera Beckett, is he sending you thirst traps?”

“It wasn’t a thirst trap.” Barely steady. “He was answering a question.”

She’s grinning again, the watchfulness sliding back into delight — but not all the way. A question still sits behind her eyes. “He is absolutely into you.”

She didn’t see. Didn’t recognize him.

My hands are still shaking as I set my phone face-down on the table.

“You’ve been seeing him for what, a few weeks?” Sloane says. “And you still won’t tell me anything real about him.”

“It’s new. I’m being careful.”

“Or you’re falling for him and it scares you.”

I take a sip of wine instead of answering.

The server arrives with a fresh bottle, giving me a moment. Sloane pours for both of us, then fixes me with that look.

“Okay. Give me something. What’s Gerald like?”

How do I describe Kane to his own sister without her figuring it out?

“He’s...” A careful pause. “Tall. Really tall. Dark hair. Gray eyes.”

“Gray eyes?” She takes a sip of wine, and then her grin turns absolutely wicked. “You know what? Obviously a good sign. Gray eyes are clearly superior.”

She gestures to herself with her wine glass, then waves it vaguely at the air. “I mean, I have gray eyes. I’m amazing. Ergo, gray-eyed people are inherently amazing. It’s science.”

I force a laugh. My ribs feel too small.

“It’s the Sinclair family curse,” she continues. “We’ve been told they’re striking. Allegedly we should be insufferable about it.” Another sip of wine. “And honestly? I think we absolutely are. Well, I am. Can’t speak for everyone, but I definitely lean into it.”

My heart stops for a full second.

She doesn’t notice. She’s already reaching for the bottle, still smiling, completely unaware that she just described him exactly. That I’m sitting here nodding along while her brother’s gray eyes are the last thing I saw this morning.