Page 57 of The Unexpected

I nod, the heel of my shoe catching on the tile. “Oh? Is she okay?”

He gives a not-smile, a half-lift at the left side of his mouth. “Maybe just a touch of nausea. She was fine this morning, but then… Well. She’s young.”

There’s a weight to the word young, and I stare at him. “Wait. Are you saying…?”

He shrugs, all nonchalance, but I know the move—he’s hinting. “It’s possible. We’re not not trying, let’s put it that way.”

“Jesus, Dad.”

He shrugs again. “It’s natural. Besides, it doesn’t affect you, Stells, and even if it did, you love babies. You’ll be a great big sister.” He looks at me, reading my reaction like a stock ticker, and then, satisfied I’m not going to faint or puke, he pivots and leads me through the archway into the main hall.

It’s all vaults and candlelight: rows of votive candles in gold glass, two brass chandeliers the size of my first car, and table after table draped in snow-white linen, dotted with arrangements of blood-red lilies. The air is thick with beeswax, and the sweetly acrid ghost of incense that’s seeped into the stones over centuries. Every voice is softened by the height of the ceiling and the sheer volume of money in the room. Near the dais, a string quartet floats a syrupy Schubert across the clinking glasses.

There’s a burgundy banner draped over the front of the podium: TRINITY LITERACY FUNDRAISER, the font like something off a bottle of communion wine. It’s all a little much, even by my family’s standards.

I scan for him immediately—Hunter. He’s not hard to spot, even in a crowd of black tuxedos. My uncle towers over the people around him, dressed in a black Savile Row tux, every edge of him squared and dark. His hair is slicked with a wet gleam, his jaw bladed in blue-black stubble, and the way he moves through the crowd makes the women in the crowd wilt with wonder and appreciation. He stands at the edge of a circle of ladies, glass of cab in his fist, looking bored and beautiful. When he sees me, his gaze lingers: up my body, down, and then back to my face. The corner of his mouth lifts, and he gives a slow, deliberate nod.

It’s the look that says: I am absolutely fucking you in a public place tonight, and you’re not leaving until my hands are red on your hips.

My throat closes, the flush rising so fast I hope it doesn’t show.

Then I see my other lover. Across the hall, beside a marble column, is Lachlan: the only man in a clerical collar, and the only one who makes it look less like a uniform and more like a dare. His hair is pale gold, almost silver in the candlelight, and he wears it cropped on the sides but loose on top, a little rebellious, a little priest-who-might-punch-you. He’s talking to a knot of parishioners, the smile in place, but his blue eyes slice toward me for a second and linger. He raises his glass, but not in greeting—in promise. Like he’s already mapping out a back hallway and a locked door.

I try not to shiver.

I try harder not to look like I’m shivering.

Thomas is intercepted by a man with an enormous signet ring and a comb-over, and within three steps he’s in conversation, shoulders back, the smile like a weapon. I trail after, nodding at the appropriate moments, trying not to stare at the quartet or the way the waiters swoop in, carving arcs of silver tray through the air. The whole thing is choreographed down to the last wine stain on the tablecloths.

Dinner is called, and everyone shuffles to their assigned seats. My father and I are seated at a “VIP” table (a designation that means nothing except it’s closest to the podium and the wine is swapped out every two courses). I glance at the tent card, which reads Stella Moreland, and next to me on my left is Thomas Moreland, and on my right, Hunter Roberts. He’s late. Of course. At the far end, I see Lachlan chatting with some old ladies. He must be seated on the opposite side of the hall.

I settle in, cross my legs under the table, and wonder if my father is going to make conversation or if I’m on my own. He solves that by launching into a volley of hellos to the people around us, and soon he’s deep in discussion with a lawyer from the next table over.

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.