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“I see…”
I can’t read her expression. Suddenly, I worry I’ve said too much. “Um, look, I’m not sure how much of this Misha wants you or your mother to know. So if you could—”
“Don’t worry,” Nikita says, waving a hand and cutting me off at the pass. “I’ll keep your secret.”
We may not be friends, but I believe her. “Thank you.”
Our waiter approaches the table yet again, but this time, his eyes are trained on me. He’s carrying a tray with a single drink on it.
“Sorry to interrupt, but this is for you, ma’am,” he explains to me. “From the gentleman at the bar.”
I blink in surprise. A Campari Orange. It used to be my favorite summer drink.
“For me?” I ask in confusion. Surely he was supposed to send this to Nikita.
But he doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
I glance at Nikita and back at the waiter. I look everywhere except at the bar. I don’t want to give anyone false hope. “You can let the gentleman know I politely decline. I’m not drinking today.”
The waiter nods. “Of course, ma’am.”
When he leaves, Nikita looks almost giddy. “Does that happen often?”
“I wish,” I huff. “Well, before… I would have wished when I wasn’t—No, that has never happened before.”
Nikita is about to respond when the waiter appears again, still holding the single drink. “Ma’am, the gentleman at the bar insists that I give you this drink. There is a note, as well.”
“I really can’t accept the drink. I—”
The waiter offers me the note. It’s only a single line, so I read it before I even mean to.
I’m sorry, my sweet Paige. I have a lot of explaining to do. Please give me a chance.
I recognize the handwriting instantly.
My gaze snaps to the bar, and there he is. His height is accentuated by the tall bar stool he’s perched on, his body angled in my direction, that shaggy head of hair looking so jarringly wrong and out of place here.
He smiles nervously. My stomach bottoms out.
“Oh God,” I whisper. “Anthony.”
65
PAIGE
“Who’s Anthony?” Nikita asks.
I forgot she was here. For a moment, I forgotIwas here. So I don’t have the bandwidth to consider whether I should lie. I couldn’t even think of a believable lie if I wanted to.
“He is my ex-husband,” I breathe.
“You’ve been married before?” she asks sharply.
“Actually… no. Not really.”
Whatever ease settled between us evaporates in a second. She frowns. “You weren’t really married to another man before you weren’t really married to my brother?”
She doesn’t need to spell it out for me to understand where her thinking is headed.
