Page 108

It sounds terrifying if I say it out loud, but being with Julian has somehow become the easiest thing in the world. I feel as though I simply belong here.

“So,” I say, taking a bite of my own and eyeing him suspiciously. “About this Music and Literature night at the shop… you’ve been acting really cagey about it for weeks. I really, really hope you haven’t gone overboard.”

Julian pauses, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“Me? Cagey? Never.”

“Julian. I’m serious. My mom expects a quiet little evening.”

He doesn’t say a word, he only winks at me, his eyes sparkling with a secret he has no intention of sharing just yet.

“You’re impossible.” I grunt at him, though the laughter bubbling up in my throat completely ruins the effect.

“And you love it.” He reaches out, his fingers gently stroking the skin of my arm. “Now finish up. We need to get dressed, and drive all the way to Mystic.”

37

Julian

She only mentioned it once months ago, but that was all it took. A single offhand remark from Ellise Vance was all it took to permanently burn the problem into my brain.

From the minute I stumbled across her in that library, completely losing herself in the absolute worst way possible to a mountain of chaotic financial spreadsheets and sprawling red ink marks all over the page, I knew that I was going to intervene.

Even back then, during the phase where I tried to convince myself I couldn’t stand the sight of her, I realised I also couldn’t stand to see her look like that—helpless and drowning under a weight that wasn’t hers to carry.

The thing about being a Thorne, maybe the only thing I’ve ever been truly grateful for when it comes to my father’s name, is that people answer your phone calls.

I called the New York Times arts desk on a Wednesday afternoon, and by the end of Friday they had confirmed their attendance. I made a single call to a legendary jazz guitarist I’d met during a late-night bender at a jazz club on 42nd Street, who had said yes before I even finished telling him the details.

The guys helped secure the guest list and a few touches of their own too. Josh was particularly involved by the end, especially after our little heart-to-heart when I confessed my true feelings about Ellise to him.

The catering was Carmela’s recommendation, which I accepted because Carmela has never been wrong about food in twenty years. The wine selection I handled personally. Pulling vintage crates of smooth reds and crisp whites from the Greenwich wine store was something I could execute without even blinking. Alistair is never home to drink them, so they just sat in the dark collecting dust.

Who gives a fuck if it pisses him off anyway?

Certainly not me.

I did not tell Ellise a single goddamn thing about the true scale of what I was putting together. If I had told her about the press coverage and the guest list beforehand, her anxiety would have hit the roof, and I didn’t want her to call the whole thing off.

I’d put in too much work over the last few weeks for it to end before it had even begun.

The bookstore on the Music and Literature night is an experience I was not prepared for.

I’ve spent my life being dragged to numerous high-society events—galas, pretentious gallery openings, charity dinners that served as photo ops for the Thorne & Bell company. I’ve hated every single one of them.

This night is nothing like any of that.

Vance’s Volumes is packed to the rafters, not only with bodies, but with a vibrant hum of raw energy I don’t have a name for.

Writers in the history section are passionately debating prose over overflowing plates of food. The guitarist from the jazz club holds a half empty glass of Pinot Noir, as he explains the concept of a new song he is writing.

The sound that fills the room is something warm and mellow, and for the first time at an event, I feel like I am finally able to breathe.

The bookstore itself is exactly as Ellise described it during those quiet hours in my bed after we had consumed each other in the best possible way.

And, Penny Vance is a glorious, emotional mess.

She has cried at least four times in the span of an hour, all of which I witnessed.