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“Yes.” Isaac leans forward and brushes a hand against my thigh. Getting my attention. I look over and catch the dark eyes, now trained on me. “You play. Don’t you?”
I nod. “Yes. It’s become… well, my obsession since the divorce, after work.”
“Good. We’ll win, then.”
“You’re confident.”
“Just being a realist,” he says. “And I rarely lose.”
I smile. But then it dies, and I sigh. “I’m sorry. For implicating you in all of this, for taking up even more of your time. I know you don’t have a lot to spare.”
He looks out over the crowd. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll sell the illusion even better like this. What couple wouldn’t play together?”
“Yes, I guess we will.”
“My aunt and uncle bought it,” he says. “Seems like Percy did, too.”
“Do you think they’ll tell your parents? Or your brother?” I know what his family tree looks like. More than I should, probably, all courtesy of the well-packaged brief on the Winters I’d received from the background team at Exciteur.
“They will,” Isaac says. “I suspect my aunt is calling my mother as we speak.”
“Will that get them off your back for a bit?”
“I hope so.” He leans forward. “It’s almost midnight.”
“Oh. The carriage is about to become a pumpkin.”
“Yes.” He looks out from the balcony again, down to the patrons below. “They’ll announce the winners of the blind auction. Nothing we have to stay for.”
“You’re right.” The dress is becoming uncomfortable, restrictive. I can’t wait to take it off and sit down on the couch with a cup of tea and Milo in my lap. The damn cat who proves my sister right every time I see him because he’s far too cute for me to ever resent.
Isaac extends a hand and helps me out of the chair. “How are you feeling?”
“I feel okay,” I murmur. His hand is still around mine, and we’re close enough that the tip of his leather shoe brushes against mine. “I can’t wait to take off this dress, though. It looks great, but it feels awful.”
He doesn’t answer. No wonder, either. I’m saying too much, and none of it’s good. Tonight had been a lot. Too much champagne, and too many close calls.
I slip my hand from his. “Should we?”
“Yes,” he says and clears his throat. His voice is hoarser. “Lead the way.”
We walk down the stairs and back out into the main hall. The low, murmuring chatter and the music blend together, and where it had before been imperceptible, I now long for silence.
Isaac walks by my side. He offers me his arm, a silent gesture, and I take it. It’s steady and unfamiliar in the most exciting of ways.
The sound of friction against a mic rings out through the hall. “Sorry about that, folks. It’s finally time to announce the winners of tonight’s blind auction!” I look over to see Maurizio Madden on stage. He’s the eccentric head of the charity and organizer of this benefit, year after year. “You’ve all been most charitable indeed, let me tell you. It’s been a wonder to go through all the blind bids. Let me start off with the 1998 bottle of Château Margille, one of only twenty bottles produced in that vintage. And the winner is… Celine Browne!”
Isaac’s steps don’t falter. Neither do mine, despite the ringing in my ears. This time I notice the people looking at us as we pass.
Seeing him, and then me.
Recognizing him, and not me.
“The second item received an astonishing number of bids, which isn’t surprising because this is a special one. It’s a weekend stay for two at the legendary Marmont Manor Hotel in Connecticut this fall, complete with the executive suite and access to the spa. The winning bid is from none other than Isaac Winter!”
Applause erupts around us, and beneath my hand, Isaac’s arm tightens. But he doesn’t slow down.
“You have to accept the gift card,” I murmur.
