“You heard us? Through the door?”
“Sometimes.”
“Wow.” Trying to sort through a year’s worth of hushed conversations with Mason is difficult, but my brain attempts it. What incriminating things had I said about Victor?
He shifts closer, voice dropping. “Thinking of all the awful things I might have overheard?”
“Yes. I don’t know if I should apologize.”
“I didn’t hear a thing. But if you think you should apologize, I’m willing to hear it.”
“You vain man,” I say. “Do you know how good of an assistant I was? I hadlistsof your favorite lunches, rotating them based on the day of the week and the mood you were in. I took pride in organizing your email inbox. It was labeled and color-coordinated and a work of art. I drafted thebestmemos and meeting notes for you.”
Victor’s lips curl, an expression I’m so unused to seeing that it stops me mid-brag. “I’ve noticed, now that Brad is here.”
“He’s doing a good job, isn’t he?”
“Good enough. Probably thanks to your coaching.”
The compliment is tiny, but it warms me. I’d wanted Conway’s approval when I was his assistant. With St. Clair, I’d craved it, and every day he said nothing was a day I needed it more.
He’s close, his aftershave a heady balm. In the dim light of the car, his blue eyes look almost black. “Cecilia.”
“Yes?”
“They bought it. About you and me, and our marriage. Thank you for that.”
“You’re welcome.”
He takes my hand in between both of his and with strong, sure fingers he slides my rings off my finger. He has to worry them around my knuckle, but then they’re off, gleaming gold in his palm.
“Keep them safe for me,” I murmur.
He puts them in his suit pocket. “Until next time.”
My heart pounds. The champagne, I think.
Steven pulls the car to a stop outside our apartment building. Victor’s the first to break eye contact and get out, but I follow suit, heart still racing.
He had always intimidated me. It hasn’t changed.
Victor rests a hand on my low back and we walk through the lobby. There’s no one here to see us, but his hand is there regardless, a warm weight through my dress.
He unlocks our front door and nods toward the staircase. “Get some sleep,” he tells me. “You’ll need it, because tomorrow, I’m going to tear your business idea to shreds.”
The dry threat makes me smile. “Good. I don’t want you to go easy on me.”
“That’s not my style.”
“Oh, I know.” I look at him standing alone in the hallway, hands in his pockets. He looks back at me until our gazes break.
The excitement of the evening makes it hard to sleep, despite my big, comfortable bed and the view of the dazzling city skyline outside my window. I tell myself I won’t, but I listen for the sound of his footsteps coming up the stairs. The door to his bedroom shuts, and I imagine him in there, Victor St. Clair, running his hand through his hair.
Just before I fall asleep, I hear his footsteps again. This time down the staircase and out the front door. I hear it shut.
I lay awake for a long time, but I don’t hear him return.
10