Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
The first course is set in front of me—a tiny puck of beet mousse on a cracker so thin it might as well be a communion wafer. I stab it with my fork, let it fall apart, then sip my water. A white-gloved server pours a splash of Sancerre into my glass, and I take a long sip, feeling the acid run right to my core.
I don’t want to look for them again, but I do. Hunter is working the room, every so often glancing my way with a glint that makes my thighs tighten under the dress. Lachlan is harder to keep track of; he’s moved, and now stands in conversation with a gray-haired woman in a beaded dress and a gaudy purple stole.
Eventually, Hunter arrives at our table. He slides into the seat beside me, then sets his hand casually on my knee, just beneath the lip of the tablecloth. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t even seem to notice I’m there, but the pressure of his hand is everything.
“You look gorgeous,” he murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear.
“You could have texted.”
“What would I say?” He leans in, his mouth almost at my ear, the heat of his breath making the hairs on my neck stand up. “That I want to fuck you on stage tonight?”
My body goes hot, a flush I’m sure is visible.
Thomas is mid-sentence about tax law, but glances over and says, “Glad you could make it, Hunter. You remember the Burtons?”
“Of course,” my uncle says, flashing the million-watt smile. “Always happy to see you.” He turns to me, the hand still locked on my knee. “How’s work, Stella? Still at Nicolette’s?”
I nod, voice shaky. “Yes, you know I’m still there.”
“Isn’t the average age of your customer somewhere around seventy?” he says, with the faintest edge of tease. “With white hair and a cane?”
I nod again, but I’m barely hearing him. “Yes but older women can be very fashionable too. Everyone has a right to feel beautiful.”
The next course arrives, some kind of chicken en croute with an unidentifiable green sauce. I poke at it, then glance up to find Lachlan standing at the edge of the dais, eyes on me. He smiles, just enough to flash white teeth, and then looks away.
The speeches start—first a welcome from the board chair, then a meandering monologue about the literacy fund and the importance of “values in the modern age.” My father watches with the focus of a man who plans to steal the speaker’s job in a year or two. Hunter’s hand creeps higher on my thigh, his fingers tracing invisible patterns. It’s a game he plays: how far can he go before I yelp, or slide under the table, or just fall to pieces in front of two hundred of the city’s most important people.
I grip his wrist under the table, try to anchor myself.
At the end of the first speech, there’s an interlude for the string quartet to play. The room buzzes with talk and the clatter of silverware.
“Lachlan’s secured a plane,” Hunter says, low.
My mind blanks. “A what?”
He grins. “It’s a joke. It means he found a place. Come on, sweetheart. You know we’re not here for the rubber chicken. Meet us outside in five.”
He pulls his hand from my thigh, gives my knee a squeeze, and then stands, glass in hand. I watch him go, tall and easy through the crowd. At the dais, he pauses to shake the hand of the bishop, then heads down a side aisle and vanishes.
I count to thirty, then excuse myself, muttering something about needing the ladies.
The hallway off the main hall is colder, the air more raw. At the end of it is a narrow corridor, and then the sacristy—a little chamber of limestone and dust, with a high-set window like an eye. There are shelves with folded choir robes, and a battered wooden kneeler in the corner. The only light is a bare bulb overhead, haloed by the cold.
Lachlan is already there, leaning against a shelf, collar perfect and hair not even mussed.
“You came,” he says, and the words mean something else entirely.
I nod. “Hunter said you—”
He cuts me off with a finger at my lips. “We don’t have long.” He moves close, his hands on my waist, and in a motion that’s all grace, spins me so my back is to the shelf. He kisses me, slow but deep, and I taste him: mint and wine and the ghost of whiskey.
I hear the echo of footsteps—Hunter, not bothering to be quiet. He enters, closes the door, and in the low light he’s all black and shadow, the white triangle of his shirt the only bright.
“Look at this,” he says. “Three sinners in a church.”
Lachlan smiles, smile dark. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”