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5
Nina stood next to Karen,listening as she introduced Vincent to a reporter from the New York Times. The reading had ended hours ago and the after-party had been a series of conversations just like this one — Karen schmoozing and introducing, Nina smiling anddrinking.
It was the second part of the equation that had finally nixed Nina’s nervousness. She was on her second cocktail and feeling good, almost like she belonged here as much as anyone else, in spite of the fact that her suspicion about being underdressed was confirmed the moment she’d stepped into the swanky restaurant that had been rented by the publisher for the after-party.
Karen was right though: it didn’t matter. The lighting was dim, the crowd so thick it was hard to see more than the face of the person you were talking to. Everyone was having a good time, and Nina had relaxed into her role as Karen’s best friend, newly arrived in the city from the mysterious land of “upstate”, a region that wasn’t really upstate to anyone but citydwellers.
Everyone was friendly and interested, and Nina had had brief conversations with several intriguing people she would never in a million years have met had she had stayed inLarchmont.
There was an artist who’d recently had her first show at a gallery in Tribeca, a buyer for Bloomingdales who was gearing up for New York Fashion Week, a woman who was a trustee for Carnegie Hall. It had gone on and on, a parade of people proving that Karen had been right: a world of possibilities had opened up for Nina, and if she didn’t believe it with the first drink, by the end of the second, she was startingto.
She looked down at her empty glass and leaned in to Karen during a break in the conversation. “Going to get another drink. Wantone?”
“Yes please,” Karen said, handing over her emptyglass.
“Excuse me,” Nina said to the two men, now deep inconversation.
They nodded vaguely and Nina stepped into the crowd, making her way toward the bar at the front of the restaurant. The crowd had only gotten bigger as the night wore on, evidence that some of the people invited to the reading had skipped it and gone straight to the after-party.
As far as Nina was concerned, it was their loss. She’d been fascinated by Vincent’s reading, and even more so during the Q and A session that had followed. Vincent’s book centered around the socioeconomic and cultural challenges of a continent struggling to reconcile its violent and in many ways regressive past with the unstoppable encroachment of the global economy, the internet, and socialmedia.
The man was impressive, well into his seventies and still traveling the globe, using his billions to further causes ranging from healthcare to a worldwide ban on child marriage to universal access to high-speed internet. Nina had been especially impressed with the photographs — an array of rich, emotional images — surrounding him during the reading, although Vincent had made it clear they hadn’t been taken by him, but by a photographer who had traveled withhim.
She reached the bar feeling like she’d crossed the finish line of an unexpected obstacle course, set down the two empty glasses, and waited for the bartender to come her way. When he got to her, she called out her order over the din and waited while he poured, then left a five dollar tip, grateful Karen’s employer was sponsoring the openbar.
Picking up the glasses, she turned away from the bar and nearly ran into someone standing not two inches away. When she looked up, it was into a pair of familiar blueeyes.
The man from the coffee shop near herapartment.
He laughed and glanced at the drinks in her hands. “This city is going to have to cut you off fromliquids.”
She shook her head with a smile. “Or you from places that serve them. This town obviously isn’t big enough for the two ofus.”
He grinned, his teeth white and straight. “It’ll be a fight to thedeath.”
He had endearing — and yes, sexy — dimples, his five o’clock shadow as present at eleven p.m. as it had been at ten in the morning. This time he was wearing slacks and a midnight blue button-down, the jacket stretched across his shoulders somehow looking both tailored andcasual.
She was saved from formulating a comeback by the sound of Karen’s voice beyond hisshoulder.
“There you are!” She angled around the man in front of Nina and took her drink from Nina’s hand, then drained half of it before turning toward him. Her face lit up with surprise. “Liam! I didn’t see you comein.”
Liam. His name wasLiam.
“That may or may not have been intentional,” Liamsaid.
Karen shook her head. “You’re bad. You didn’t come to the reading. Everyone was talking about yourphotographs.”
Nina was just starting to make sense of the words flowing between them when Karen turned toher.
“Speaking of which — Nina, this is Liam McAlister. He’s the one who took the pictures you liked somuch.”
“You’re the photographer?” Nina asked. “The one who traveled withVincent?”
“Guilty as charged,” Liam said. “I’m glad you likethem.”
“They’re beautiful,” Nina said, searching for a better word for the way the pictures made her feel. “Powerful.”
His smile was slow, aimed only at her, and for a split second the crowd seemed to recede, the murmur of conversation and laughtermuted.
“Nina’s a friend of mine,” Karen said, speaking loudly to be heard over thenoise.
Liam leaned down, his breath against her cheek. “Any friend of Karen’s is a friend ofmine.”
She was paralyzed by his nearness, by the brush of his jacket against her blouse, the scent of his cologne, spicy andraw.
By the time she gathered her wits he was walking away, his broad shoulders parting the crowd like a ship parting the sea. She didn’t know if he’d said goodbye to Karen — if he’d said anything at all. She only knew that her body was vibrating, an unfamiliar flush spreading out from herstomach.
Karen smirked, raising her eyebrows as she took another drink from herglass.
