About Last Night

“Yes, but only because she loves you.”

> “Are we talking about the same person? Judith doesn’t love anyone. She tolerates me because I keep her organized, and because I amuse her.”

Nev chuckled. “Trust me on this. She’s trying to protect you because she thinks the sun rises and sets on your pretty little head.” He ran his hand down to her waist, tugging her closer and holding her still for a moment so he could drop a kiss on her lips. “I know the feeling.”

She took his hand, and they strolled along down one of the wealthy residential streets between the station and the river. Being with Nev turned down the volume on the panic and desperation she’d been feeling since hearing the news about the catalog, but it didn’t banish them. The lull in their conversation gave the bad feelings an opportunity to creep back in, tightening her shoulders and unsettling her stomach. She needed to talk.

“I had no idea that you don’t sell your paintings,” she said. “You could, you know. You should at least show them. They’re too good to hide away in your apartment.”

A worried crease appeared between his eyebrows, and he shot her a glance that held none of his customary confidence. “You really think so?”

She did, but she didn’t want to have to tell him. She wanted Nev to be skilled at everything he did and perfectly aware of it. It was unfair of her. In the past, part of the allure of the men she’d gone for had been their flaws. She’d fall for their slightly-too-large ears, their pointy elbows and skinny calves. The mixture of artistic talent and social awkwardness had been enough to make her giddy, knowing she would be the first to appreciate some guy’s real skill at the same time she repaired all his flaws with the power of her love.

She didn’t think about Nev that way. He’d never needed her help, and the thought that he might made her uncomfortable.

“Yeah, I do think so,” she said, ashamed of herself for being so unsupportive, if only in her own head. “And I know what I’m talking about, too.”

They reached the shady embankment and turned to walk along the path beside the river. Motionless on the still afternoon, the Thames was utterly unimpressive. The first time she’d seen it, she’d been astonished by how little there was to it. For all its history and fame, England was built on such a small scale compared with home. Rural Illinois had rivers four times as big that no one had ever heard of, but here the sorry old Thames got an embankment with a paved path, a beautiful stone wall, and wrought-iron lampposts. This was a country that knew how to make the most of what it had to offer.

“Can I ask you something?” she asked, staring out toward Chelsea Bridge.

“Of course.”

“Do you like working at the bank?”

He considered her question for a long moment before answering. “It would be fair to say I loathe working at the bank.”

She’d known this. She’d seen it on his face when he came home exhausted, and she’d heard it in all that he didn’t say about his job. She felt chagrin for never having asked before, and slightly resentful, too, that he’d never volunteered the information. “You could quit and be a painter.” He’d pick up commissions easily, particularly with his family connections.

Nev as a painter was easy to imagine. Last weekend, they’d hung out at his flat, and he’d painted all Saturday morning, then taken her along to his rugby game on Blackheath Common. They’d gone out to the pub afterward with some of the guys he played with, and she’d settled into the anonymity of the crowd and watched him interact with them, a different man from the one who boarded the train to Bank five mornings a week. With cadmium red under his fingernails and a bruise blooming on his cheekbone, he’d been all teasing smiles, telling self-deprecating stories that made everyone laugh. Unfettered, Nev had taken her breath away.

The worry line deepened between his eyes, and he shot her a glance in a language she couldn’t read. “No,” he said. “I couldn’t.” He steered her across the street toward the bar where they’d have drinks before dinner. “Here we are, love.”

The light touch of his hand on her back was as affectionate as ever, but dread made the skin prickle between her shoulder blades. He’d never looked at her like that before, with frustration and even a hint of anger. His tone said, in no uncertain terms, Drop it.

She would. She was the last person in the world to go digging around in someone else’s secrets.

It was just that she hadn’t known Nev had any.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” he asked once their drinks had arrived. They had a small table in the corner, tall enough that Cath’s feet didn’t reach the floor and she’d had to hook her heels over the rung of her bar stool. “Or will I have to get you tipsy and coax the information out of you? I can be quite persuasive.”

He winked, hoping to lighten the mood. Talking about painting had put his back up, and she had something on her mind that was making her fingers tap the side of her wineglass and one knee jitter relentlessly beneath the table. Whatever it was, he didn’t like having it between them. He didn’t like having anything between them. Tables. Clothes. Secrets.

Perhaps dinner had been a bad idea. He’d been wanting to take her out for a proper date for the past month, but now that she’d finally agreed, he had to repress the urge to get her back home and into bed. It was the only way he knew how to unlock her, the only thing that reliably solved their problems.

She sighed, lifted her glass, and knocked back half of it in one go. Then, with her eyes closed, she said, “My catalog got the ax. The museum lost a sponsor, and they can’t afford to publish it anymore.”

“Oh, bugger. I’m sorry.”

She stiffened, and he recognized his mistake. She wouldn’t want sympathy. Whatever the opposite of the standard response was, that’s what Cath would be most comfortable with. So no sympathy. No offers of assistance. A sarcastic comment or a joke followed by a quick change of subject, and she’d settle right down.

But what Cath wanted and what Cath needed were rarely the same thing.

He’d become quite the expert on her. She’d told him very few of her secrets, but what he did know he’d used—piecing it together with thousands of observations to create an ever-evolving portrait of her character. He knew she was far more upset than she’d let on, even to herself. The catalog meant the world to her.

“How much did the sponsor take with them?”

“Fifty thousand pounds.”