Without warning, Callum wraps his arm around my waist and jerks me close. It’s so sudden and unexpected that I almost haul off and smack him, thinking he’s attacking me. It’s only after a squealing blonde girl runs up to us that I catch on to his game.
She’s about 5’2, wearing a pink sundress with a matching silk scarf around her neck. She’s trailed by a bearded man carrying a large Hermès bag that I can only assume doesn’t belong to him, since it really doesn’t match his polo shirt.
“Cal!” she cries, grabbing his arms and stretching up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
All of this is par for the course at Shoreside. It’s Callum’s reaction that astonishes me.
His chilly expression transforms into a charming smile and he says, “There they are! My favorite newlyweds. Any tips for us now that you’re on the other side?”
It really is incredible, how the politician’s mask slides into place on his handsome face. It looks totally natural—except for the rigidness of his smile. I had no idea he was so good at this.
Makes sense, I guess. But it’s disturbing how easily he puts on the cheerfulness and charm. I’ve never seen anything like it.
The woman laughs, resting her manicured hand lightly on Callum’s arm. I can see her engagement ring, the rock almost tipping her hand over sideways. Jesus Christ, I think I just found the iceberg that sank the Titanic.
“Oh, Cal!” she says with a twittering laugh. “It’s only been a month for us, so all I’ve learned so far is that you shouldn’t register at Kneen & Co! What a nightmare trying to return the things we didn’t want. I asked for the Marie Daage Aloe custom dinnerware, but I immediately regretted it once I saw the new spring pattern. Of course, you don’t care about that—you’ll probably leave it all to your fiancée to handle.”
Now she spares me a glance, and the tiniest of lines struggle to appear between her eyebrows, valiantly fighting against the mass amounts of Botox attempting to smooth it back out again.
“I don’t think we’ve ever met,” she says. “I’m Christina Huntley-Hart. This is my husband, Geoffrey Hart.”
She holds out her hand in that limp overhand way that always confuses me. I have to fight the urge to bow and kiss it like an earl in an old movie. Instead I just give it a weird sideways squeeze, letting go as quickly as possible.
“Aida,” I reply.
“Aida . . .?”
“Aida Gallo,” Callum supplies.
That forehead line struggles to reappear again.
“I don’t think I know the Gallos . . .” she says. “Are you members at the North Shore Country Club?”
“No!” I say, matching her voice in pitch in phoniness. “Should we join? I fear my tennis game has been suffering ever so much lately . . .”
She stares at me like she has a slight suspicion I’m making fun of her but doesn’t believe that could possibly be true.
Callum’s hand tightens painfully around my waist. It’s hard not to wince.
“Aida loves tennis,” he says. “She’s so athletic.”
Christina smiles uncertainly.
“So do I,” she says. Then, turning back to Callum, “You remember when we played together in Florence? You were my favorite doubles partner of that trip.”
It’s funny. I could give two shits if Christina Cuntley-Hart wants to flirt with Callum. They might have fucked last week, for all I know. But I find it pretty fucking disrespectful that she’s doing it right in front of my face.
I look over at poor Geoffrey Hart to see what he thinks about it. He hasn’t spoken one word so far. He’s got his eye on the television over the bar, which is playing highlights from the Cubs game. He’s holding Christina’s purse in both hands, with an expression on his face like this month of marriage has been the longest thirty days of his life.
“Hey, Geoff,” I say to him, “did they let you play, too, or did you just carry the rackets?”
Geoffrey raises an eyebrow and gives a little snort. “I wasn’t on that particular trip.”
“Hm,” I say. “Too bad. You missed seeing Cal score with Christina.”
Now Christina is definitely pissed. She narrows her eyes at me, nostrils flared.
“Well,” she says flatly. “Congratulations again. Looks like you’ve got quite the catch, Cal.”