Page 67 of Not Home Alone

“You don’t have to apologize for anything, babe,” Grant says to me, and I find myself standing a little taller. “Ava isn’t used to seeing people actually drink her wine.”

“Untrue, and you’d know that if you were ever actually here. Come on, Ariel. Let’s go make sure Daddy isn’t eating too much.” Ava has to pry her daughter from Grant’s arms.

I get it, Ariel, I find myself thinking. He has really nice arms.

I try to tell Grant telepathically that I don’t love how his sister just spoke to him, but he’s looking over my shoulder and frowning.

“Here we go,” he mutters as he puts his arm around my waist.

“I am so glad you’re here,” I hear Quinn say as she approaches. “Oh my god,” she mutters. “There’s this man who keeps coming over and talking to me, and he will not take the hint that I’m not interested.” She comes over and nestles right up against the other side of Grant, even though he’s holding onto me. “Save me,” she pleads, as if she’s a damsel in distress.

“You mean that middle-aged waiter with the tray of hors d’oeuvres?” Grant asks.

“He is way too aggressive. Anyway, hi!” She kisses Grant on the cheek. “Happy holidays.” She holds up her phone to take a selfie as she presses her face against the side of his. “I’ll post this on Insta and tag you!” she says, but Grant holds his hand up in front of the lens.

“If you want a picture of me, you can pose with me and my date, Merrily,” he tells her calmly. “Otherwise, happy holidays. It’s nice to see you.”

Quinn’s face falls. Well, it doesn’t fall. I don’t think her facial muscles are able to move in any direction. But her eyeballs appear unhappy. “Okay. Cute necklace,” she says to me as she walks off to swipe an hors d’oeuvre from the tray of the man who was allegedly stalking her.

“Sorry about that,” Grant says, as he kisses my temple. “You can put these down now. I’ll air-dry.” He takes the soda and towel from me and places them on a nearby table. “You ready to mingle some more, or would milady care for a glass of the house white?”

“Let’s mingle.”

He takes my hand and leads me around the room. We chat with guests. It’s a pretty stuffy crowd—bankers, investors, suppliers, board members, and their spouses. Some of them are holding glasses of wine, none of them are drinking it. Grant’s hand rests on the small of my back or my waist the entire time. Every now and then he’ll glance down at me, grinning, as he gives me a gentle, reassuring rub. It’s such a small gesture that feels so intimate, part of my brain believes we’ve actually been a couple for months. I smile to myself, remembering when he said he would never be able to pull off pretending he can’t keep his hands off me. Turns out he’s a much better singer and actor than we both thought.

A few women politely ask how we got together because they were at The Notcracker show ten years ago, and like the good girlfriend I am, I let Grant tell his simple version of the story. That he had reached out to me a few months ago after coming home from yet another bad date in New York and apologized to me about how he behaved because it had been weighing on him and we got to know each other again virtually. And I have to remind myself that it isn’t true. He definitely has not apologized to me about how he behaved. And we haven’t gotten to know each other, not really.

But I’m surprised by how much I wish it were true.

After half an hour of chatting with people, none of whom are Robert Moody, we’re at the catering table filling up small plates with food when Wyatt Finch wanders over, with a stunning, very intense-looking woman draped over him. I recognize him from around town, but I don’t recognize her at all.

“Moody.” Wyatt gives him a nod. He offers me a hand to shake, but his date glares at him and at me, as if us shaking hands would constitute cheating in her mind. “You must be Merrily,” he says. “I don’t believe we’ve officially met. I’m Wyatt Finch. This is⁠—”

“Deeonah,” she says, reaching for my hand before I can shake Wyatt’s.

“Deeana?” I ask for confirmation.

“Dee-oh-nah. Like Leona. But with a D.”

“Ahhh.”

“How’s it going?” Grant asks Wyatt. “It’s so weird seeing you anywhere other than your office.”

“It’s going great,” Wyatt says, with absolutely no enthusiasm. “My assistant keeps texting me, so something’s probably come up, but I’ve been ignoring her because obviously I want to stay here and continue enjoying the evening with Dionah.”

“Deeonah,” she reminds him.

“Yes.” He scans the room in the direction of the entrance. “Ahhh, shit,” he says, sounding far more relieved than annoyed. “My assistant’s here? I can’t believe she actually showed up and interrupted my date.”

My beautiful friend Joy walks in, wearing a pretty dress and a really nice pair of boots under a trench coat. She’s holding a manila envelope and rolling her eyes at me. “Why haven’t you been responding to my texts?” she asks her boss, as if by rote. “Something very urgent has come up.”

“Why are you dressed like that?” Wyatt asks, looking her up and down.

“I was at dinner.”

“With whom?”

My friend widens her eyes at him, like stick to the script.