AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“How was the flight, Claire?” Phil asks, eyes crinkled with affection at his daughter over the rim of his wine glass.
“Oh.” Sinclaire takes her fork from a napkin and spreads the roll of linen across her lap. “It was great. Fine.”
“Glad.” He slices into what’s left of the delicious lamb chop. “Wasn’t sure you’d make it out of O’Hare ahead of the snow.”
She answers only with a nod, eyes lowered as she samples the grilled Brussels sprouts and whipped sweet potatoes.
“And what about Trey?” Phil asks, a line deepening between his salt and pepper brows. “The papers came through? I hope that no-account Negro hasn’t been—”
“Daddy!” Her horrified gaze pings between her father and me. “Can we not talk about him? Please? Everything is settled and final. We’re . . .It’s over.”
Despite the discomfort of the situation, some of the weight lifts in my chest. Maybe it’s excellent champagne, two glasses of mulled wine, the lamb chop, the conversation—I don’t know what does it—but my perspective flips on its head. What if this isn’t the universe’s punishment, that I fucked my agent’s daughter at a swing party and could end up dropped from the firm, unrepresented before my novel even hits the shelves? What if it’s a gift, a what are the odds offering from the hook up deities? I haven’t been able to evict Sinclaire from my thoughts and she has occasionally plagued my dreams. I’ve inquired, not so subtly, about how I could find her, with no success.
Until tonight.
Through no finagling of my own.
Maybe this is a gift.
“Since Claire doesn’t want to talk about the idiot who shall not be mentioned,” Phil says, slanting a wry smile to his daughter. “Why don’t you tell us about your novel, Harper.”
Oh, shit.
“Um, it’s just simple boy meets girl kind of thing.” I clench my fists in my lap, grit my teeth and reach for the wine.
“Did I hear you say simple?” Merrin elevates her voice so it carries from the other end of the table. “It is anything but. One of the most fascinating premises I’ve read in a long time.”
Phil leans one elbow back on the armrest of his chair, holds his chin in his hand. “Well tell us about it. Merrin said she’d found a rare talent, but didn’t tell me about the book.”
“Yes, I did.” Merrin rolls her eyes with good-natured exasperation. “You’ve probably forgotten. I knew right away this book would sell.”
“Now you have to tell us about it,” one of the authors chimes in from midway down the table, his eyes glinting with interest.
“He’s being so bashful,” Merrin says. “I have no idea why, but I’ll tell it. I did have to pitch it all over, after all.”
“Oh, no.” My gaze flies to meet Sinclaire’s curious stare. “We don’t have to—”
“So there’s a guy who ends up at his brother’s house for an uplanned visit,” Merrin says, red-painted lips spreading into a grin. “Because his flight gets canceled and he has to crash with his brother and sister-in-law for the night.”
“I really don’t think they want to hear—” I start, heart pounding, demanding liberation from my chest.
“Not realizing,” Merrin continues, pausing for dramatic effect. “That they’re swingers.”
Murmurs of interest rise from the table, sounds of encouragement and humor.
I drop my forehead into one hand, shielding my eyes from Sinclaire’s penetrating glower.
“So he’s in the office, jet lagged,” Merrin says, eyes lit with glee. “And one of the swingers stumbles into the office where he’s asleep on the couch.”
I lift my head. “Please don’t—”
“And she sits on him,” Merrin cackles, clapping her hands once, really warming to her rapt audience now. “This girl’s husband has gone off with a couple for a threesome, and she didn’t want to play.”
“Prude,” one of the authors lobs with a laugh.
“Oh, no,” Merrin says, delight evident. “She asks him, the little hussy, if he’ll fuck—”
The scrape of Sinclaire’s chair, shoved back across the hardwood floor, slices into Merrin’s story.
“Excuse me,” Sinclaire says, the curves of her mouth flattened into a forbidding line. “I feel . . .sick. I’m going to lie down.”
The mirth on Merrin’s face quickly fades to concern. “Oh, baby. Did you eat the airplane food again? You know it never agrees with you.”
“No, I didn’t, Mom.” Sinclaire hurls the napkin onto her barely touched meal, her movements jerky. Her words staccato. “It’s just been a long day. I’m exhausted and . . .”
She takes in a deep breath, presses her hand to her stomach and forces a grin on everyone watching with various degrees of curiosity and concern.
“I just need to lie down, I think,” she finishes, heading for the dining room door. She pauses to drop a kiss on Merrin’s hair. “I’m fine.”
Once Sinclaire departs, the conversation falls back into little social pockets, various topics with different groups gathered around the table.
