Careful not to smudge her lipstick, she makes a perfect O with her lips and holds her fingers in front of her mouth.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Have I used the wrong word?” she asks, pretending she doesn’t understand the meaning of my words. “Is he your partner?”
“He’s not my partner,” I say curtly, the anger in my voice prompting Adele to shift her eyes to me.
“What is he then?” she asks, a wicked smile flickering across her face.
“He, um... was working for me.”
“In what capacity?” she asks before gulping another canapé.
Unlike her, she licks her fingers.
It’s time to pour myself a drink. I push myself out of my chair, turn my back to them and fumble through a couple of cabinets until I find a bottle of wine and glasses.
“You want some?” I ask as she carefully slides the edge of a napkin over the corner of her mouth and brushes off a crumb of pastry.
“No, thank you.”
I turn my back to her again, concentrating on the glass.
“He helped me with my writing.”
“Did he?” she sneers.
I spin around to face her, my eyes throwing daggers over the rim of my glass.
She barely suppresses a chuckle.
“Hmm... Oh, yes. I remember. He was a writer.”
She places a tiny Japanese roll in her mouth.
“He’s an extremely handsome man for a writer,” she says, chewing on her food.
My eyebrows go up.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
I wait for her to finish chewing and swallowing and even getting a sip of water before she finally speaks again.
Leaning against the kitchen counter, Adele watches us, her arms folded over her chest.
“He made quite a splash with my friends last year in the Keys. After all this time, they’re still talking about him.”
She smiles. My hand is itching to wipe that grin off her face.
“That’s why I was wondering about your relationship with him,” she murmurs casually.
“There was no relationship between us.”
My voice rolls out tense.
“That’s good to know,” she says, tossing her napkin on the table.
A sly smile drapes over her lips.
“Seemingly, he was bedding one of the guests that night.”