Page 45 of The Unraveling

“I’ll lead you to the table. Please feel free to sip as we walk.”

As I follow her, I think about the local “nice” restaurant in my hometown. It was called Shister’s, which was obviously mercilessly mocked by every child, teenager, and adult. When we’d arrive at Shister’s, the hostess there would take a break from texting on her phone to demand to know how many of you there were, and then she would take however many menus needed—always covered in something sticky—and slap them down on a dirty table before saying something like, Svedka will be right over to take your order.

This is…a lot different.

The floor is a pale pink carpet, and the windows are floor to ceiling. The ceilings are low, but it lends an intimate, interesting feel to the place. I realize that every color is nude, cream, or this very soft salmon. Even the guests’ outfits. Thank God I let Arabella dress me. If I’d been on my own, I probably would have worn something like a maraschino-red satin dress. It would have looked absurd here. Like spilled blood on a white sand beach.

As we round a corner, I see the table she is leading me to. There is only one occupant, and he is unmistakable. Even among all the wealthy diners here, his wealth just emanates off of him differently.

Max looks up and sees the hostess and me.

“What the fuck?” I say under my breath.

Chapter Fifteen

Max stands, buttoning his blazer.

He cuts an imposing figure, his features chiseled, his eyes piercing. I feel a shiver go down my spine as those eyes land on mine.

“Jocelyn,” says Alistair, in a deep, husky voice. “A pleasure to finally meet you. Alistair Cavendish.”

I’m so confused. This is Max. As in, Max, the one-night stand I was supposed to have and forget. I mean, the forgetting wasn’t going that well—I’ve thought about that night every hour since it happened—but I wasn’t supposed to see him again. And why is he saying he’s Alistair?

He holds out a hand and I take it, his strong grip making my own feel weak.

He gives me a glance that indicates that the hostess is still there and listening. I’m supposed to go along with this.

“Likewise, Mr.Cavendish,” I say, winging it. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

“Of course. I always like to meet the new young talent in town. Please, sit.”

I can hear that hint of something besides English in his accent, and I remember what Arabella told me about his past and how his family made its money.

I do as I’m told, and pretend to look at the menu, but really I’m looking at him through my lashes. I suddenly feel very bare. Completely exposed.

He is dressed in a suit so completely, startlingly well fitting that it must have been made from scratch just for him. His crisp white shirt is unbuttoned at the neck and I see a glimpse of his collarbone.

I stutter, “Is—is your wife joining us?”

“Yes. I apologize for her tardiness, she’s not usually late. I haven’t checked my phone, I can’t stand being so attached to it.” He pulls out his phone anyway, but is interrupted by a small squeak.

The hostess, who still hasn’t left.

Alistair and I both turn to her.

“I’m so sorry, Mr.Cavendish, I forgot to tell you that Mrs.Cavendish won’t be joining you this evening. I’m so sorry, sir.”

He holds her gaze with such intense impassivity that I feel a crushing secondhand embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry, Mr.Cavendish. She said you weren’t answering your phone, I—I simply forgot, sir.”

She then bows her head in apology.

He nods once slowly before saying, “That’ll be all, Francesca.”

She whispers another apology before heading off, and I feel so bad for her I almost want to go with her and tell her it’s all right.

My cheeks flush. I look down at the menu, feeling an awful, weird rush of embarrassment for my very existence. Even though I’m where I’m supposed to be, doing what I’m supposed to be doing.

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