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“Ah,” he says. “Well, that’s sneaky of you, Sum.”
Anthony clears his throat and extends a hand to Robin. “Anthony Winter.”
Well, that’s not fair. He’s breaking out his full name, knowing exactly what that thing does. I cheer him on silently.
Robin’s eyes narrow. “Robin Whitlock,” he replies.
“A pleasure,” Anthony says in a bored drawl. “Now, we were leaving, so if you’ll please…”
The hint of a flush rises in Robin’s cheeks. Oh, I haven’t forgotten how quick he is to anger when he feels shamed.
I give him a brilliant smile. “Take care of yourself, Robin.”
We step past him toward the exit. If he responds, it’s not something I hear. It’s not something I want to either.
Anthony doesn’t put his arm around my shoulders or tug me against his side. He just brushes the back of his hand against mine in a subtle invitation, and I know him well enough to know it’s not accidental.
I curl my fingers around his in answer.
We walk hand-in-hand through the crowded bar, like we walk this way all the time. Like we’re a confirmed item. My heart beats fast, and it’s not only from the confrontation with Robin.
Anthony stops a few feet from the door. It’s such an abrupt stop that I startle, looking up at him.
He’s watching a couple in the opposite corner.
There’s nothing special about them. A dark-haired woman is sitting in the crook of a tall man’s arm. They look a bit mismatched, perhaps. He has a leather jacket on and she wears a tweed blazer.
As we watch, the man turns her face up to his and kisses her.
“Anthony?” I ask. The look on his face sets my heart into overdrive. He looks… outraged. Betrayed.
Confused.
“My fucking eyes,” he mutters. “I can’t be sure… I have to be sure, Summer.”
“Sure about what?”
Barely taking his eyes off the couple, he pulls out his phone. A few seconds later and there’s an image of a pristine young brunette on the screen.
“Is this her? Sitting over there?”
I look from the image of a smiling woman with pearl earrings to the couple across the bar.
“Yes,” I whisper. “It’s her. Who is she, Anthony?”
“Cordelia Jacobs,” he says. “My brother’s fiancée.”
21
Anthony
I walk through the lobby of the Winter Hotel with quick strides. It won’t be long until one or more of the concierges recognizes me, and once they do, there will be no end to the hello-ing and hi-ing I’ll have to endure.
Worse, because they’re people I’d once spent a lot of time with. Marcel at reception had looked after Isaac and me when we were children, letting us ride the luggage trolleys down the corridor sometimes when we visited.
The plush carpet gives way under my feet as I walk up the marble staircases. The railing is polished to gleaming. The way it’s always been, and if my brother has a say in it, the way it’ll always be.
The Winter Hotel is an institution.
