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Ugh.“Must I?”
“You don’t want to?” His gaze delved deep into her own.
“It’s gloomy.” She dropped her own gaze, heart clenching. “My parents died when I was eight. They were all I had aside from my granny. She raised me and passed a couple of years ago. I moved to London for a fresh start.” Losing her was still a painful knife in her chest.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.”
An amuse-bouche arrived to lighten the mood. It was a single bite of ceviche on a foam of fragrant dill served on a silver spoon, topped by a few grains of caviar and a sprinkle of chopped chive. They chased it with a light wine ripe with notes of pear and anise.
Fliss had never noticed such subtleties of flavor before. She thought her senses might’ve been sharpened by the company she was in. Being in the aura of this man was a thrill somewhere between lion taming and steering a high-performance car through the streets of Monaco.
“What do you do here?” he asked.
“Fashion designer.” It might not have been her job, but painters were artists even if they didn’t sell their work. “I’m still starting out. You? What brings you to London?”
“Patting the backs of our top performers at the gala this evening.”
“Shouldn’t you be there, then?”
He shrugged it off. “They’ll have more fun without the boss keeping them in check.”
“Is that what your work entails? Travel and glad-handing?”
“Much of it, yes.” His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Why are you asking about my work?”
“Why are you interested in mine? We have to talk about something. It’s too bad I don’t have my tarot cards.” She looked to her small handbag. “I could have done a reading for you.”
“Do you really believe in the supernatural, or are you stringing me along?”
“Both.” She couldn’t help grinning. “Granny used to take me to a psychic sometimes, to see if we could talk to my parents. When I was twelve, I won my tarot cards at a fair. It came with a book of interpretations, so I spent the rest of my adolescence learning to read them. I’ve delved a little into astrology and numerology. Crystals. As far as explaining life’s mysteries, they make as much sense as anything else.”
“What about ghosts?”
“What about them? Don’t say you don’t believe in them.” She leaned forward to warn, “There’s one right behind you.”
It was their server, coming to remove their plates. Saint’s reaction to the sudden movement in his periphery was a flicker of his gaze, then a shake of his head at her. “You’re trouble.”
She bit back a chuckle, enjoying herself. This was a unique position. She had no history with him, no future—only now. It allowed her to be completely herself without fear of judgment or consequence. It was thrilling.
“I know how farfetched these things sound,” she conceded. “But belief isn’t about being rational, is it? It’s what we convince ourselves is true when we don’t have evidence to tell us otherwise. When I set out my cards, that’s all I’m looking for—evidence to support a belief I already have. Should I move to London? Oh, look. I pulled a card that means material success. That must mean I’ll achieve my goals if I move to London.”
“Sounds more like you’re tricking yourself.”
“We all trick ourselves.” Fliss waved that away. “If you prefer to believe that heaven exists, that’s the trick you’ve chosen because there’s no way to prove what really happens after death. Maybe it’s my imagination that I hear my grandmother’s voice when I set out my cards, but who cares if it is? It brings me comfort to feel like I’m talking to her. And in a way, Iamkeeping her spirit alive by invoking her. Does that make her a ghost whose energy is in the room?”
“You’ve almost convinced me to believe in something completely illogical.” He tilted his head as though trying to understand how she’d accomplished it. “It sounds like you were very close with her.”
“I was.” She was unable to prevent the pang of loss that thinned her voice. “But her quality of life had deteriorated so much by the time she passed, I really believe she’s in a better place. It was still hard to be left behind.” She could feel herself descending into melancholy so she added, “She loved to spin a yarn, too. You couldn’t trust a word she said. I suppose I keep her alive in that way as well.”
Saint’s face blanked. “Is everything you’ve just told me pure BS?”
“Does it matter? You wanted to be entertained, and you are. Thank you.” She smiled as the server presented a crystal shot glass filled with layers of gazpacho from dark red beet through a rich green cucumber and avocado to a bright yellow heirloom tomato topped with a morsel of lobster and a sprig of mint.
A Reuilly Sauvignon Blanc was poured into a fresh glass, even though she hadn’t finished her first glass of wine and the bottle was still mostly full.
Saint wasn’t trying to get her drunk by urging her to finish, though. He caught her concerned glance at the ice bucket and said drily, “The staff won’t let the opened bottles go to waste.”
