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My jaw tightens, and a dull ache floods the sides of my face as a tension headache forms in real time.
Margaux toys with her pearl necklace, tugging on it as if it’s almost choking her. In the process, the top button of her cardigan has come undone, revealing a hint of creamy skin, but the rest of her is conservatively covered despite the early-summer heat wave we’re having. When she’s finished fussing with her necklace, she pulls at the itchy-looking lace collar of her sweater.
Nothing about her looks comfortable.
Nothing about her looks like she wants to be here either.
Perhaps we have something in common already.
CHAPTER THREE
SLOANE
This is painful.
Physically painful—all the way to the marrow of my bones.
I’m baking in this sweater and filtering every word that comes out of my mouth in an attempt to ensure that I’m dreadfully boring per Margaux’s orders. My back hurts from sitting straight and proper and my face hurts from smiling and my head hurts from nodding.
It’s taking everything I have not to wince and cringe my way through this clunky, flavorless conversation.
I take a generous swill of my gin and tonic, which isn’t kicking in fast enough.
If Margaux were here—like she was meant to be—she’d breeze through all this small talk with a smile on her face and a witticism on the tip of her tongue. That woman has the art of conversation down to a science. She can talk to anyone, anywhere, about anything, and make it look like child’s play. She can walk into a room full of strangers and walk out with five new best friends and an invitation to be in some stranger’s wedding.
Me, on the other hand? I’d rather stick a rusty needle in my eye than talk about the weather, mayoral candidates, whatever new restaurant opened up in the East Village last week, or my favorite Hamptons hot spots. Superficial topics have never appealed to me.
At least I’m killing it in the uninteresting department, though I can’t tell whether Roman’s eyes are glazed over because of his half-empty glass of liquor or because I’m quite literally boring the man to tears.
“Food’s taking a while, isn’t it?” he asks only a few minutes after we order.
I get the sense he wants the evening to hurry along just as much as I do.
“Places like this aren’t exactly known for their speed,” I say in the most monotone voice I can muster in accordance with Margaux’s rules. “Plus, I think it’s only been five minutes.”
Who knew three hundred seconds could feel like three hundred years?
He takes a substantial sip from his glass. I swear each drink that passes his lips is bigger than the one before it. The next time our server stops by, he’ll be due for a refill, and the night is exhaustingly young.
I steal a look around the restaurant—it’s all I can do to distract myself from the fact that I’m sitting across from Roman Bellisario . . . a notoriously elusive and demanding New York art collector whose reputation I’m far too familiar with, given my line of work. As the director of the Westfeldt International Art Gallery in SoHo, I’ve conversed and negotiated with his personal curator more times than I care to count, though this is the first time I’ve ever been face to face with the jerk himself.
Only so far, he’s yet to be a jerk.
Bland, maybe.
But not an asshole.
Certainly not the arrogant dumpster fire of a man I was anticipating.
I imagine he’s on his best behavior, given that this is a first date. Fortunately for him, he won’t need to maintain the illusion that he’s actually some kind of decent person because this first date will be our last date too.
Our paths first crossed three years ago, and in one of the worst ways.
“So did you grow up in the city or . . . ?” His voice tapers into nothing, like he doesn’t have the energy to finish his sentence. The lack of excitement in his tone tells me this small talk is just as painful for him as it is for me. There’s no twinkle in his eye that hints he’s enjoying a single second of our evening so far.
“Ohio,” I say. “A small town about forty miles north of Columbus. You?”
I keep the details to a minimum to avoid the risk of diving into any kind of conversation with meaning. This needs to be bare bones, dry, stilted, and forgettable.
“Born and raised here,” he says. I can’t be sure, but I swear he’s stifling a yawn. He dips his head down and checks his phone.
I do the same.
“Sorry—it’s my sitter,” he says a moment later. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back.”
With that, he leaves me alone at the table, disappearing into some hallway behind the hostess stand. Pressing my lips together, I wrap my head around the fact that Roman Bellisario is a dad.
