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11
SUMMER
We’re two bottles in and I’m feeling it in my legs. They’re heavy. Tingly. And when I stand up, I know the wine is going to hit me, but for now my head is staying clear enough, and I’m not slurring any words. It’s just a nice buzz in nice company, on a gorgeous terrace that seems to dull the noise of the outside world, forming a bubble of serenity. The roar of traffic and the babble of partygoers is nothing more than a humming undercurrent.
“How did you find this place?” I put up a hand. “No, no, don’t tell me. You did some work for them, and now you get the perks of having this beautiful spot all to yourself?”
Rowan laughs. “Something like that. I get a lot of perks.”
“I bet you do. You and the owner seemed very… friendly.” I’m tipsy enough to lean into the faintest pang of jealousy, turning it into a joke to test the waters. “All that nudging and winking and laughing. Felt a bit like a third wheel for a while there, if I’m honest. Don’t blame you, though—sheisstunning!”
I’m a touch over-eager. I hear it in the tightening of my voice, but the funny thing is, I actually mean it. The owner of the wine shop is without doubt the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life, like she just stepped out of the pages of a high fashion magazine. And she’s French, too, which is rarely not sexy.
“Notthatkind of perk,” Rowan says, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked. “I just… I get a lot of free stuff, and Delphine used to be my Georgie, I guess you could say.”
“Tell me more.” I refill our glasses, drawn in by the rhythm of his voice. It’s like the soft, sultry saxophone playing beneath the main melody, and now that I’ve heard it, it’s all I can hear.
He shrugs, wafting a hand back at the terrace doors. “I just stumbled on this place one day. Picture me: collar open, tie askew, huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf. It had been a monumentally bad week—you know the kind; not enough time, too much to do. Anyway, I had a craving for anything alcoholic, but I wanted some quiet to go with it. I was about to give up and just drown my sorrows in a Mississippi Mudslide at some cheap tourist bar, when, lo and behold, Delphine’s appeared in front of me. So did its namesake. She said, ‘Get in here before you put your fist through something.’ I did, and I came back most weeks to decompress on a Friday night. Took me months before Delphine would let me out on the terrace, though.”
“We do that, too,” I confess shyly, opening up a few honesty petals like a Spring bud that isn’t quite sure winter has passed yet.
Rowan tilts his head to one side, and my gaze follows the cords of his neck. His skin glistens. Is he warm? I feel a little fuzzy myself. “Come here? You already knew the secret?” he asks.
“No, I mean… we take the time to forget the week on a Friday night. Me and my girls from the gallery. They’re somewhere on Bourbon Street right now, but I usually duck out before they head to the clubs.”
“Not a party animal?”
I brush away some droplets of condensation with my thumb, leaving lines against the wine glass. “Never appealed to me. Still doesn’t. Can’t imagine anything worse than trying to yell a conversation at someone while sipping down cocktails that are diabetes in a cup.” A laugh bubbles from my lips. “God, I sound like an old granny, don’t I?”
“I’d use the word ‘sophisticated,’ and there’s no shame in that. I prefer this, too—being able to hear myself think, and to really listen to what the person I’m with has to say,” he assures, picking up one of the olives that Delphine set out for us, along with some fresh bread and a small dish of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, refusing to mix together. Oil slicks his thumb and forefinger as he pops it in his mouth, leaving a shine on his lips. It draws my eyes to them.
“So, what else do you get for free?” I force my gaze away from his mouth. “Sneakers?” I nod down to tonight’s bright red classics. Suede high-tops, with white embroidered wings on either side of the heel, above the cream strip of sole.
He groans and sprawls across the wicker chair. “I wish. Been trying to poach clients in the shoe game for years, but they’ve usually got in-house folks. The brands I like, anyway.” He leans forward. “Do you get any freebies at the gallery? Anyone nudge a million-dollar painting your way?”
“Have youseenthe gallery? We’re not quite the MET. I’d be terrified someone would break in if we ever attractedthatlevel of art.” I shrug. “Anyway, it’s not my thing. There is an appeal to the big names, sure, but I also like championing the smaller fish, you know? The local talent. Honestly, when we have a famous artist showing, I think I check the cameras every three minutes.”
Rowan chuckles, but I can’t figure out what’s funny. “You know, you can set your cameras to motion detect, right? If someone breaks in, an alarm goes off on your phone, and you don’t have to play security guard all night.”
“Seriously?”
“What era did you say you flew in from again?” He grins and sips his wine, struggling to conceal a cringe as he swallows it down. It’s either too sour or he doesn’t like the taste.
“The nineties, so not too far,” I reply. “My arms are barely tired.”
He snorts into his glass. “Ah, I see I have competition with the dad jokes.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not coming for your crown.” I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s so easy to be around him, like we’ve known each other for years. The wine probably has a lot to do with it, and I think I’m okay with that. I’m… enjoying this version of me—relaxed, teasing, comfortable even when the conversation dips for a minute or two. Normally, I’d be scrabbling to fill it with any old nonsense.
He pats the top of his head, disturbing his curls, checking his crown is still there. “Phew. Thought you’d swiped it off me.” He tilts the wine around the glass, gazing at it. “Grace is getting to that age where she groans or rolls her eyes when I make those jokes so, honestly, it’s a relief to have a new audience.”
“She’s growing up way too fast,” I agree, resting my neck on the back of the chair, and staring up at the clear, star-speckled sky. The rainclouds have blown further south, but the air is fresher for it, the humidity tempered.
“Would I be a heinous uncle if I said I was kind of glad Grace ate that cookie dough?”
I stare at him, trying to decide. “Probably, yeah.”
“Then I won’t say that I’m glad.” He laughs, but it’s stilted, as if embarrassed. “But… itisnice to get to talk to you, one on one, without me blundering about like a medieval knight, upholding my grandma’s ancient code of chivalry. Maybe, I should take a look at what eraIflew in from.”
