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“Way off. And just so we’re clear, I did not have dinner with any of your friends from school,” I say, “or any of your teachers.”
“Then who was it?” she asks, blinking up at me.
I begin to answer, only to stop myself. I don’t want to so much as breathe Margaux’s name in front of my daughters unless it’s for good reason. There’s no way of knowing how it’ll affect them or how they’ll interpret it.
“Come along, Marabel.” Aunt Theodora returns to the kitchen with Adeline in tow. “Apparently we’re off to get some more Squishmallows.”
“Can we get bubbles too?” Marabel asks. “Daddy said we could blow bubbles later.”
“Of course we can.” Theodora cups her little chin before bopping her on the nose. “Now go get your shoes on and wait for me by the front door.”
“The last thing they need are more Squishmallows,” I say. “Did you not see the massive collection in the corner of their room?”
“Apparently there’s some limited edition neon-rainbow version that Adeline insists she must have.” Theodora places her palm across her heart, her expression growing grave. “And who am I to get in the way of a collector of the stuffed animal arts?”
“You spoil them,” I say.
“As I should.” She winks from behind her shiny red glasses before turning on her heel to leave. Stopping after a few steps, she turns back to me. “You should call Margaux while we’re out today. Maybe invite her to get lunch or coffee or something.”
“I just saw her last night.”
Sliding her glasses off her nose, she chews on the tip. “Actually . . . one of her best clients just opened a new bakery downtown. If I recall, she’s supposed to be there for the grand opening today.”
“Yeah, no.” I stifle a chuckle. “I’m not just going to show up like that at one of her work events. I’m not a stalker.”
“All right, fine.” She places her glasses back with a single, swift move. “Now that I said that out loud, it does sound creepy. It was sweeter in my head. Anyway, we’re off.”
With that, Theodora and the girls leave to hunt for Squishmallows.
And while I have no intentions of showing up at Margaux’s client’s bakery, I pull up my phone and cue up her number. Thumb hovering over the green button, I contemplate my move. It’s barely been half a day since our date, and I certainly don’t want to seem desperate—lord knows I’m not.
Playing games has never been my thing.
I’m a straight-to-the-point type.
Which is why I’m going to call her up and nail down a date and time for the private collection tour I offered.
That, and I want to know when I’m going to see her again.
The sooner, the better.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SLOANE
“Wish me luck.” Margaux shimmies her feet into a pair of strappy nude sandals and stops by the mirror in our entry to fluff her hair. Once she’s satisfied with the way the curls frame her face, she fusses with her skirt, which appears to be digging into her waistline. “The last thing I need is to be surrounded by delicious baked goods, but I’ve spent a year working with this client on his merch, so it’d be wrong for me to miss the grand opening.”
“Isn’t this the kind of stuff you live for? Seeing the products you helped develop on real shelves? In the hands of real people?”
“Yeah.” She presses her lips together, blending her lip gloss.
“You don’t sound excited . . .”
“I’m not.” She checks her purse next, rifling through it until she finds her phone. “I’m supposed to meet with Ethan right after . . .”
“Oh—he finally got back to you?” Last I knew she’d sent him a couple of texts but hadn’t heard back. Margaux eventually sent him a picture of the ultrasounds. I wasn’t aware that he’d responded to that yet. “So what are you wanting out of—”
“—I don’t know. Can we just talk about this later?” She returns her phone to her bag. It’s hard to tell if she’s snippy because of hormones or because she’s anxious about talking to Ethan or if she’s just Margaux being Margaux. More than likely it’s a combination of all three.
“Of course.”
My sister leaves in a frazzled huff—though no one but me would be able to tell. She still looks as poised and put together as ever.
She isn’t gone but two minutes when Roman calls me. I’m midway through a bite of buttered toast when the first ring comes through. I wash it down with a gulp of orange juice before answering.
“Hi,” I answer after the third ring, in my most neutral voice.
Checking the time, I calculate that I need to be ready and out the door in forty-five minutes. My former colleague Julissa invited me to check out the new Pietro Palomar exhibit at Hartsfield Galleria. It’s a soft opening—industry insiders and select collectors only. Pietro isn’t my personal favorite, as his style is more along the lines of glamorous gore, but I have a handful of clients who are huge fans of his work, and keeping in the know is part of my job.
