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“Yes.”
Cecilia nods. “Perfect. Well then, I only have one final question.”
“What’s that?”
“What’s the dress code for tomorrow?”
I shrug. “I’ll be in a suit.”
“Shocker,” she says. “Well, I’ll go for a cocktail dress, then.”
I think of her curves in a tight dress. I think of the way she’d looked when we’d gone out to dinner, with her eyes smoked and a neckline that was… well. I wrest my mind away from that image.
“Sounds good.”
She nods again and pushes her phone away. “That’s a wrap on this meeting, then. What time will we—”
Her phone rings. The loud signal cuts through the kitchen, echoing off the walls. She reads the name on the screen and then declines, sliding her phone into her pocket.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “You were saying?”
“I wasn’t talking. You were.” My curiosity gets the better of me, mingling with the image of her in a tight outfit and loose hair. We’d agreed we didn’t need to be celibate. She’s as free to date as I am. “Who was that?”
“Just a friend.”
“The woman who was one of our witnesses?”
“Yes,” she says. “She’s an artist, actually.”
“So that’s why you want me to patronize an art gallery.”
She nods. “It’s her first big show. Her stuff is amazing, but the New York art world is cutthroat, and there are fees just to exhibit.”
Several things click into place at that. Cecilia didn’t just marry me to quit her job. Didn’t just want to fulfill her dream of starting her own business. She married me to make her friend’s dream come true too.
In anyone else, it would be a weakness to care that much, to make business decisions based on sentiment.
But I’m not sure I can call the woman in front of meweakany longer.
She clears her throat. “I was thinking we’d go to the opening together.”
“So I can buy some art, be seen, make some calls.”
“Yes.”
It’s no different from what most people want. What every single one of the people who sent us wedding gifts wants. They wanted some of the St. Clair name associated with them, as if the sheen and the prestige of an old family could rub off. But it’s not cheap and platinum-coated. It’s gold through-and-through, and it doesn’t stain.
“I’ll do it.” I rise from the table and put my plate into the sink. Her voice reaches me as I make my way to the hall.
“What do we say to people in a year?” she asks. “When they ask why we divorced?”
I look back at her, still seated cross-legged at my kitchen table. Miss Myers, and not a pencil skirt in sight.
“We tell them the truth,” I say. “We wanted different things.”
“That’s not the truth. We’ll want the exact same thing. To be divorced.”
I roll my eyes, and she chuckles. “Myers.”
