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A development that is highly annoying.
His eyes move away from mine, slowly, almost reluctantly, as he seems to realize where we are. His gaze flits from painting to painting. “Fairies.”
“Cutesy Tinker Bell,” I correct. Then, because I can’t help but want to defend my range as an artist, I point out, “And they’re not all fairies.”
“No, they’re not. This one in particular is clever.” He points his glass to the purple cocktail with a whimsical violet Manhattan skyline in the background. I’d added it just this afternoon after working around the clock trying to get it done in time for this party in hopes it would find a new home.
“Genevieve would love it,” he adds. “Purple’s her favorite color.”
My usually full-flavored blanc de pinot noir, with notes of strawberries and cherry, suddenly tastes sour.
“You should get it for her,” I say mildly, turning so we’re standing shoulder to shoulder. “Better yet, let me get it for you. It would make a fabulous engagement gift.”
I say it to needle him, a reminder that I’d overheard his conversation with his marriage-minded mother.
But I feel a little guilty about it when I see a troubled look cross his face.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “That’s really none of my business.”
“No, it’s not.” Then he looks down at his glass. “It’s complicated.”
“How so?” I ask, because I’m genuinely curious, especially now I know his and Genevieve’s intertwined history. Even more bafflingly though, I want to know because it seems he actually wants to tell me.
“Well, for starters, we’re not dating.”
My head whips around. “What?”
He lifts a shoulder and looks back at the watercolor, but I don’t sense he’s really seeing it. “We’re just friends. We have been our entire life, though my mother wasn’t wrong about our dating history. We’ve dated on and off since we were teens, trying to make it work because it feels like it should work. Up until a few months ago we were on again, but I called it.” He pauses. “This time for good.”
I blink. “But you guys still came together tonight?”
He gives a small half smile. “She loves champagne. And when you’re as well practiced at breaking up as Gen and me, and still have to see each other at holidays, you get pretty good at going straight to the friends stage with minimal awkwardness.”
“That’s impressive,” I murmur. “Why for good this time on the breakup?”
He says nothing.
“Hmm, okay, stop me when I get close,” I say, taking a sip of wine. We both pretend to study the art as I begin rattling off the potential snags to their relationship. “You’re gay. She’s gay. She likes cats. You’re a dog person. Opposing political views. One of you likes pineapple on your pizza, and the other thinks fruit on pizza’s an aberration. She wants to summer in East Hampton, you in Southampton. You have a porn addiction. You have different tastes in china patterns. She falls asleep to whale noises, but you like silence and a night-light. There’s someone else—”
His eyes flick over to me, just for a second, but it’s unmistakably a tell.
“Ah,” I say lightly, trying to ignore the way my heart irrationally soars at the realization he’s single, only to tumble again at the realization that there’s another woman in the picture. “Tricky.”
“It’s not like that,” he says a little irritably.
I look up at him questioningly.
“It’s just…” He exhales with a quiet laugh. “Complicated. And I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“Maybe because you know I already think you’re the worst, and thus you can tell me anything without my opinion of you sinking any lower?” I say, batting my eyelashes.
He rolls his eyes, then turns to face me. “What about you?” he asks, glancing my way. “In a relationship?”
“Sort of,” I say, thinking of Sir. Then I smile and echo his words. “It’s complicated.”
For a moment, I think he might smile back, and it feels like we understand each other in a way I haven’t felt understood in a really long time. Well, outside of my online conversations with Sir.
Is it just me? I want to know.
“What?” he prods, as though sensing the question I haven’t voiced.
I take a tiny sip of my champagne for courage and decide to feel brave. “That day we first met. Did you—” My courage fades slightly, and I press my lips together and look down at my shoes as I try again. “Did you feel…”
His gaze sharpens. “What? Did I feel what?”
I swallow, and when May barks my name in her sharp drill sergeant voice, I jump. I lose my nerve. I start to turn to see what she wants, but Sebastian’s gaze holds me frozen, silently trying to tell me something…
“Gracie?” May says again, gentler this time.
Reluctantly, I turn and see May and Robyn standing beside a lanky man with a large nose, who I know from Twitter is the sommelier blogger I need to woo if I want a good write-up for the shop.
