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“You like me because I’m direct, and fun, and I keep your husband on his toes,” I supply.
“Don’t forget humble. One of my favorite things about you. Well, enjoy.”
“He’d never enjoy something as wholesome and uplifting as a charity ball.” Christian shakes his head, but his wife is already swaggering away, approaching the guests trickling into the room.
He hands me a glass of champagne. “I know humans aren’t your thing. You surviving?”
I down the entire thing like it is water, then toss the glass onto a tray held by a waiter who’s passing by. “Just barely. But I’ll do better after five more of these.”
“Drinking away your problems is such a fucking cliché.”
“Away?” There’s already another glass in my hand. I smile wryly. “I can assure you, Christian, my problems can outrun Usain Bolt. No part of me is dumb enough to think I can escape them.”
“Then why the shit are you drinking?” A hand claps my back. It’s Riggs. I turn around to look at him. I find him in a tux that doesn’t suggest it’s been stolen from Salvation Army—a welcome improvement from his usual attire—and a tan he must’ve gotten in Antarctica. There’s a pretty redhead on his arm.
“Gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce you to—” Riggs is about to tell us the name of his date—if he even remembers it. I wave him off.
“Spare me. If I allowed room in my mind for all the women you introduced to us, I’d need more cloud storage.”
Christian half winces, half chuckles. “My apologies.” He turns to the scarlet-haired beauty. “Our friend Arsène is frequently blunt, but rarely wrong.”
Riggs punches my arm. “What crawled up your ass, Corbin?”
“Grace,” Christian answers on my behalf. “Who else would be foul enough to get anywhere near his private parts?”
Ah, Grace. Even in death, she is their public enemy number one. And that’s without them even knowing anything about the Paul bullshit. I haven’t said a word about my late fiancée’s affair. I didn’t need to look pathetic on top of being an unlucky, grieving bastard.
“Just to keep you informed.” Riggs turns to her. “Christian just threw a dig at this asshole’s dead fiancée. We don’t do boundaries here.”
She sucks in a breath, looking at Christian with abhorrence.
“Don’t pretend like you’d fare better if something happened to Arya,” I murmur into my drink.
Christian gives me a pitiful look. “No, I’d die right along with her. With one distinction—Arya never tried to kill her stepbro—”
“I really do insist you meet my enchanting date.” Riggs pivots the conversation before a fistfight ensues.
Christian introduces himself to Riggs’s date. The two are locked in polite conversation after he explains to her that no one liked my fiancée very much. My gaze drifts unenthusiastically to the other people in the room. I finish the second glass of champagne and reach for a third. Galas and balls were Grace’s favorite thing. This is the first time I’ve attended an official function as a single man.
The newness of crawling back into the world without her on my arm feels like carrying a three-ton phantom limb. More specifically, the idea that Grace is no longer the endgame. The trophy. The ultimate prize.
In the sea of blow-dried dos and painted faces, I find one that I recognize.
A mass of strawberry blonde hair arranged in a high, unfashionable ponytail. I can tell it’s her even when her back is to me. She is wearing a spaghetti-strapped flowery dress to a goddamn gala and still manages to steal the entire show. Her neck is long and elegant, swanlike even, and seems just as fragile.
As if sensing my gaze on her, she turns around. Her face is wide, open, smiling. She is radiant, and I remember the last time we met, when she almost gave Cory a heart attack and nearly annihilated me in billiards. She also drank like an Irish sailor, defended that idiotic late husband of hers, and exhibited general adorableness I couldn’t decide whether revolted or amused me.
She also took interest in my astronomy obsession. Nobody else ever did. Which is the only reason why I’m not completely disgusted by seeing her here.
I lean back against the wall, watching her laughing and talking animatedly with a crowd of eager-looking men. She is significantly underdressed, but a genuine smile is a jewel more priceless than any diamond necklace one could purchase.
Riggs, naturally attuned to anything with a pair of tits, follows my gaze and hmms in agreement. “Our boy is showing signs of life. Can’t blame him, though.” Riggs grins into his drink. “Those legs would look great wrapped around my neck.”
“Winnifred Ashcroft,” Riggs’s date provides readily, glad to be of use. “She’s an actress. Came here with her agent. Well, our agent,” she amends, a brittle bite in her voice. “Chrissy has her favorites, obviously.”
