What are the odds that the woman I had a one-night—correction one-hour stand with—would be my agent’s daughter? Would be home for Christmas?
Would look even better than the last time I saw her. In a lemon-colored sweater and dark jeans ripped at the knee paired with leather boots, hair wild and free tonight, she’s exquisite. Her dark eyes stretch when they meet mine, and I see the same panic reflected there that has scattered my thoughts. As much as I wanted to see her again, not under these circumstances. What if her mother finds out? Merrin’s my agent. I fucked her daughter.
At a swing party.
Seated beside her father, a rather large man with hands that could crush me now that I take notice, sweat beads along my forehead.
“What’s wrong, honey?” Merrin asks, frowning.
“Nothing. I . . .” Sinclaire averts her eyes, rubs the back of her neck like it’s tight all of a sudden. “I didn’t realize I’d be interrupting the party.”
“Nonsense,” Phil says. “Come on down here. There’s an empty seat and we’ll get you a plate.”
An empty seat beside me.
What have I done to offend the ghosts of Christmas past so grievously that this is how they repay me?
“I can just go to my room and—”
“Don’t be silly, baby.” Phil pulls the chair out beside me. “We got you right here.”
She meets my eyes for a nanosecond, dismay clouding her expression, and then she comes, approaching like she’s taking a long walk on a short plank.
When she sits beside me, she smells the same. A mix of vanilla and something unidentifiable that could just be the way her satiny skin absorbs the scent. I fix my eyes on my half-empty plate, denying myself a long hard look at the contrast of delicate and bold her profile offers.
One of the servers brings a loaded plate and sets it down in front of Sinclaire. She stares at it for a few seconds before shifting her gaze to me. It’s only then that I realize I’m not denying myself at all, but I’m actually staring at her, taking in the bevel of her cheekbone, high and curved. The fine-grained skin like velvet stretched over a loom. She widens long-lashed eyes at me meaningfully, and drags a wary gaze from her father to her mother at the other end of the table.
“How was the flight, Claire?” Phil asks, eyes crinkled with affection at his daughter over the rim of his wine glass.
“Oh.” Sinclaire takes her fork from a napkin and spreads the roll of linen across her lap. “It was great. Fine.”
“Glad.” He slices into what’s left of the delicious lamb chop. “Wasn’t sure you’d make it out of O’Hare ahead of the snow.”
She answers only with a nod, eyes lowered as she samples the grilled Brussels sprouts and whipped sweet potatoes.
“And what about Trey?” Phil asks, a line deepening between his salt and pepper brows. “The papers came through? I hope that no-account Negro hasn’t been—”
“Daddy!” Her horrified gaze pings between her father and me. “
Can we not talk about him? Please? Everything is settled and final. We’re . . .It’s over.”
Despite the discomfort of the situation, some of the weight lifts in my chest. Maybe it’s excellent champagne, two glasses of mulled wine, the lamb chop, the conversation—I don’t know what does it—but my perspective flips on its head. What if this isn’t the universe’s punishment, that I fucked my agent’s daughter at a swing party and could end up dropped from the firm, unrepresented before my novel even hits the shelves? What if it’s a gift, a what are the odds offering from the hook up deities? I haven’t been able to evict Sinclaire from my thoughts and she has occasionally plagued my dreams. I’ve inquired, not so subtly, about how I could find her, with no success.
Until tonight.
Through no finagling of my own.
Maybe this is a gift.
“Since Claire doesn’t want to talk about the idiot who shall not be mentioned,” Phil says, slanting a wry smile to his daughter. “Why don’t you tell us about your novel, Harper.”
Oh, shit.
“Um, it’s just simple boy meets girl kind of thing.” I clench my fists in my lap, grit my teeth and reach for the wine.
“Did I hear you say simple?” Merrin elevates her voice so it carries from the other end of the table. “It is anything but. One of the most fascinating premises I’ve read in a long time.”
Phil leans one elbow back on the armrest of his chair, holds his chin in his hand. “Well tell us about it. Merrin said she’d found a rare talent, but didn’t tell me about the book.”