“He is. I’m not making any excuses for him. But… he invites excellence. You can’t be anything but your best around him, you know? He wouldn’t let you. And he works just as hard himself, Nadine. I’ve seen it up close. He’ll drive the hardest bargains, and watching him do it is impressive. Even if it’s scary sometimes.”
Her smile tilts. “You sound like you’re joining his little army of sycophants. I don’t want you to become a Stepford wife.”
I laugh. “Oh, there’s no risk of that. Truthfully, I think I’m getting the best bargain out of this deal.”
“Just make sure you do,” she says, lowering her eyebrows and wiggling them. “I found someone I want you to meet.”
“You did?”
“Yes. Jake, at the Francis Hunt Gallery. He’s one of the curators and he’s razor-sharp, but not in an I-color-coordinate-my-closet kind of way, you know?”
“Hey,” I say. “I color-coordinate my closet.”
She grins. “I know. I’ve lived with you. And you can’t have two people like that in a relationship. What if your organizational systems clash? You’d argue forever!”
“No,” I say. “Mine would win.”
“Well, Jake would let you organize his closet. I can just tell. He isn’t too artsy for your taste, either. A few years older than you. I don’t know, Cecilia, but I think this guy could be the one.”
“You say that about every guy you want to introduce me to.”
“And have I ever been wrong?”
“Yes,” I say. “Every single time.”
She snorts. “Everyone’s a possibility. But Jake is a certainty. Both you and your hubby are allowed to date other people, right?”
I groan. “Hubby?”
“Yes. Your better half, the yin to your yang, your happily-ever-after.”
“St. Clair would have an aneurysm if he heard this conversation. But yes. We can date other people as long as it’s kept discreet. Although,” I say, reaching for the stem of my glass and twisting it between my fingers, “I don’t know if that’s changed since we went to dinner with his business partners.”
“When you pretended to be happy newlyweds.”
“Yes.”
“Has the vibe between you changed in the past week?”
I shake my head. “We barely see each other. He works out in the morning, then he’s at work the entire day while I work from home. He gets home past seven. We don’t have dinner together. He doesn’t watch TV or hang out in the kitchen. We’re like ships passing in the night.”
“The man is a workaholic.”
“Textbook,” I agree. “Although…”
“What?”
“In the past week, I’ve heard him disappear at night.”
“Disappear.”
I shift in the chair. “Yes. Leave the apartment. So I don’t exactly think he’s being celibate.”
Nadine’s eyes widen. “Oh. You think he’s meeting someone at night?”
“Why else would a man that busy spend the nights somewhere else?” I ask, shrugging. It shouldn’t bother me, and yet, the idea of Victor disappearing at night to another woman, another apartment, feels like nails beneath my skin. Itchy and painful.
I know him. I used to run his schedule, his life, send emails in his name. He’d have a second apartment in our building or rent a hotel room close by. Anything for convenience and to save time.