Page 23 of His Vow

"Celebrating what?"

"Friday." He raised the glass toward me. "To Fridays."

The conversation changed to the Meridian. Daddy leaned forward, his voice dropping into the register he used for business. Rhys straightened in his chair. They discussed a board vote, a timeline, and a subsidiary in need of restructuring. I half-listened, stirring my water, my mind lost in thought.

Five days since the café. Five days since Nolan pulled his hand from under mine, stood up, said "I'll call you," and walked out the door.

I wasn't calling him. Not this time. I'd made that decision sitting alone with two coffee cups and an empty chair, watching him walk away through the glass, and I was holding it. The holding took effort. It took up every spare room in my head, crowding out the things I should be thinking about — the spring show, the new submissions, and the framing vendor Margaux was still threatening to murder.

"You're quiet today."

I blinked. Daddy was watching me across the table, his coffee cup halfway to his lips.

"Just tired." I smiled. "Long week at the gallery."

He accepted it.

Rhys glanced at me. Then he picked up his champagne, and the moment passed.

"November 9," Daddy said, brightening. "I've arranged the dinner. Intimate, just like you asked."

"How intimate?"

"Very. Forty-five people."

"Daddy, I said thirty."

"You said under thirty. I heard that. I considered it. And then I made it forty-five because your aunt is bringing her book club." He sipped his coffee. "It's going to be lovely."

I opened my mouth, closed it, and let it go.

Rhys ordered another glass of champagne. Daddy's jaw tightened. Neither of them said anything. We both watched Rhys drink.

After brunch, Daddy kissed my forehead at the curb. Rhys hugged me sideways, his arm slung over my shoulder, his cologne mixing with the champagne on his breath. "Love you, little one."

"Love you too." I squeezed his hand. "Call me back sometime."

He grinned. "I'll try."

He wouldn't. We both knew that.

The gallery was quiet when I arrived. I unlocked the door, dropped my bag behind the desk, and stood in the middle of the room with my hands on my hips. Submissions were stacked on the back table — portfolios from three new artists, photographs paper-clipped to cover letters, USB drives in labeled envelopes. I should be reviewing them. I should be rearranging the display wall for the collector visit next week.

Instead, I stood in front of Rafael's grandmother's kitchen and pressed my thumb against the rosemary on the windowsill. I thought about a man who kissed my forehead like a prayer and then left me sitting in a coffee shop without looking back.

I dragged myself to the back room and pulled the first portfolio from the stack. A ceramicist from Bed-Stuy — the one with the collapsing vessels and the gold-filled cracks. I spread the photographs across the table and studied them. They were extraordinary. The forms were unstable, leaning, the glaze crackled and split, and inside every fracture a thin line of gold caught the light.

I was arranging the photographs by size when Margaux appeared in the doorway. She leaned against the frame, crossed her arms, and studied me.

"What?" I asked.

"There's a really hot guy here to see you."

My hand stopped on the photograph. My face did something I couldn't control — a flush that started at my neck and climbed to my cheeks. My pulse jumping, my lips pressing together to keep from smiling or swearing, I wasn't sure which.

Margaux's eyebrows rose. She stepped aside and gestured toward the gallery with a flourish.

I smoothed my hair, wiped my palms on my trousers, and walked out.