AllFreeNovel
Share Us
That said, there’s a hint of lightness about him that wasn’t there before. Nothing drastic, nothing tangible, just an overall vibe I’m getting.
“Do you ever see yourself doing this?” he asks.
“You’re going to have to be more specific.” I feed him his own line from earlier.
“Having kids,” he clarifies.
“Um, sometimes? I mean, I think about it from time to time. It’s not my main priority right now. Work is pretty much my whole life,” I say. And that’s the truth whether I’m speaking for Margaux . . . or myself.
At twenty-seven, I’ve yet to feel the urgency to settle down and start a family. It’s always been in the back of my mind as something I’d like to do someday, but the tick of my biological clock is merely faint, like soft ambient background noise.
Ask me in ten years, and maybe I’ll have a different answer.
Only time will tell.
Roman frowns. “Does my aunt know that?”
Shoot.
For a moment, I almost forgot I was Margaux—and to be honest, I think I’ve forgotten more times this afternoon than I can count. Basking in the surreal magic of Halcyon’s personal studio ignited my soul in a way that made me forget what was really going on. It made me forget that none of this is real.
“Theodora is aware that I love my job, yes,” I say, crossing my fingers and hoping it never comes up in conversation between the two of them.
Theodora is notorious for her modernized work culture, for giving people the ability to flex their schedules and work from home and take as many mental health breaks as necessary. She wants her employees to be “allergic to burnout.” While her personal values tend to border on old fashioned, her workplace values are as modern as they get.
“I mean . . . it’s not a bad thing,” I say. “When I’m not working, I’m thinking about work. I guess that makes it feel like it’s a bigger part of my life than it is. I just love what I do.”
I hold my breath and pray he buys it.
“I see,” he says. We stop at a red light. Glancing out the window, I notice a middle-aged woman walking a chubby, snorty brindle-colored french bulldog with an Hermès-orange collar. She cuts off a man in a three-piece suit who’s screaming, red faced, into his phone. The woman bristles at the man and takes two steps farther away from him, just enough space for a skinny teenager on a skateboard to squeeze between them, nearly knocking the fuming man over.
Never a dull moment in this city . . .
“So what is it you do, exactly?” I ask when the stoplight blinks to green. The less we talk about me-slash-Margaux, the less chances I have to biff this.
“International shipping logistics,” he says. “My grandfather started the company in the fifties. My father took over for him in the eighties and nineties. I’d go into more details, but it tends to have an Ambien effect on people.”
“Yeah . . . that sounds . . .” I stifle a yawn I can’t contain, covering my mouth with the back of my hand.
Anticipating my Halcyon tour all day followed by the actual tour and being gifted those works has worn me out in a way I wasn’t expecting. Suddenly a date with my bed sounds amazing. I have no doubt I’ll hit the pillow with a grin on my face tonight.
“Told you it was boring,” he says without missing a beat.
Without thinking, I playfully punch his arm. If someone had told me I’d be spending a Friday night with Roman Bellisario, that he’d walk me home after and then ask for my number over the weekend, that he’d invite me to Halcyon’s studio and gift me not one but three priceless works of art, that we’d be riding in a car together discussing his daughters and his job—I’d have never believed them.
Yet here we are.
I steer my attention forward, to the back of the seat in front of me, and then I check the street signs as we pass through another intersection.
We’re almost to Midtown.
Cinderella’s stagecoach is about to turn back into a pumpkin . . . or something.
A couple more blocks and this whole thing will be over.
I won’t have to pretend to be Margaux anymore.
Relief washes through me, but the tiniest niggle of sadness settles in the pit of my stomach.
“Thank you so much for everything,” I say when his driver pulls up outside my building. Placing my hand over my heart, I add, “Truly an unforgettable afternoon.”
His mouth forms some semblance of a smile that’s gone before I have time to fully appreciate it.
“I’ll let you know when the paintings will be delivered,” he says.
The driver climbs out, trots around the back of the car, and gets my door. He extends his hand, helping me out of the tall SUV. I feel bad that I don’t know his name. For the past hour or so, my mind was focused on all things Halcyon. Now it’s too late.
