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I mutter a swear word under my breath, just as Matt realizes who Tristan is. “Wait…you’retheTristan Kane.” Awed, he forgets about Celine for the moment and holds his hand out to Tristan. “It’s an honor to meet you. I’ve read so much about you.”
“I don’t have the same advantage,” Tristan replies.
“Bastard,” I mutter under my breath.
“I’m Matt Rowland,” Matt replies eagerly.
“Boyfriend?” Tristan looks from Matt to me, the hard glint in his eyes belying his easy smile. He knows, of course. I know he knows that Matt and I are together. That’s probably why he’s here, to pour ashes on another good thing I’ve got going for me.
What’s he going to do now? Offer Matt a job? Make it so that everywhere I look his name will be like a billboard sign making it impossible for me to go a minute without thinking about him?
“We were just about to order dinner,” I say pointedly, glaring at Tristan and hoping he’ll take the hint and disappear in a poof of smoke like the evil sorcerer he is.
“Funny,” Tristan replies. “So were we.” He grins and I wonder why I thought he’d take any hint he doesn’t want. “Why don’t you come join us at our table? You’ll love it. The view is so much better.”
Matt either doesn’t read the resistance on my face or he chooses to ignore it in favor of thewonderful opportunityto spend an evening with a man like Tristan Kane.
If only he knew.
“We would love to,” Matt exclaims, embarrassingly eager.
Tristan gives me a look filled with mockery. “How wonderful.”
God, I hate him.
The manager appears again, seemingly out of nowhere, and shows us to a secluded table set for four.
“You didn’t tell me you knew Tristan Kane,” Matt whispers to me.
“I don’t know him,” I reply, annoyance and resentment seeping into my voice. I’m not lying. Can I really say I know Tristan? He’s just a stranger who had once, a long time ago, been my husband.
Tristan was right. The view is much better at his table, and it has the bonus of privacy. Despite pasting a smile on my face, I’m seething inside, knowing he arranged for the table even before he came over to talk to us, maybe even before he came into the restaurant.
I don’t talk much as the evening progresses. Matt is hovering somewhere between fanboy and cross examiner, peppering Tristan with questions while I focus on my food, pretending not to hear the deep, measured tone of Tristan’s voice.
“Tristan says you’re a curator at the Mercer museum,” Celine addresses me with a soft, lilting voice and a polite smile. “It must be like a dream come true, spending so much time surrounded by beautiful things.”
“It is,” I reply, ashamed of how rude and churlish I’ve been all evening. It’s not her fault that she can’t see through Tristan yet. “What do you do?”
“I’m a singer.”
I blink, suddenly recognizing her from a performance at the center for contemporary opera. “I have seen you on stage. You’re a phenomenal singer.”
“So they say.” She smiles and reaches out to tap my hand in a gesture that’s oddly comforting.
“How long have you two lovebirds been seeing each other?” Tristan’s voice comes from across the table. He’s looking at me now, his expression showing only mild interest, but I’m sure I can see malice burning behind his blue gaze.
I glare at him, a torrent of rude words on the tip of my tongue, but Matt is already responding to the question.
“A year and a few months.”
“Long enough to be serious.” Tristan is looking at me.
Matt laughs, his eyes flicking to mine, then back to Tristan. “We’re not putting any labels on it at this point.”
Tristan feigns surprise, filling me with an overwhelming urge to empty my wineglass in his face. “And that’s fine with you, Cora?”
If eyes could kill, he’d be dead ten times over and I’d be stomping all over his body in a frenzy of savage delight. “Perfectly fine,” I reply with a shrug. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
