Page 108 of Unholy Union
We reach for a pair of flutes from a passing tray, and as I take my first sip, Tessa gives us a mischievous grin. Her gaze flicks back and forth between me and Cato.
“I have to admit I never thought I’d eat my words, but… you two actually look pretty damn hot together.”
“Oh god,” I groan, rolling my eyes. “Tess, stop it.”
“What?” She throws up her hands. “It’s the truth! You know me, Sab. I tell it like I see it.”
I glance at Cato over the rim of my glass. “Please ignore her.”
But instead, he gives a slow nod of approval. “Actually, I think your friend has a good eye. I like her.”
I throw my arm up in mock exasperation. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Am I going to be ganged up on now by you two?”
He chuckles. “What can I say? Flattery wins me over. And clearly, Tessa’s figured that out.”
Tessa smirks, clinking her glass against mine as if to saytold you so.
Cato steps back, his hand grazing the small of my back one last time. “Now, if you ladies will excuse me… I’ll be back soon. My father is in attendance and we have some business to discuss. Principessa, behave yourself. My security will be watching.”
He says it lightly, but I hear the seriousness underlining each word.
Lazaro peels away from a nearby column and falls into step beside him. The two of them disappear down a hallway lined with modern abstract canvases and velvet ropes.
Tessa edges closer once they’re out of sight, her eyes rounder than usual.
“Wow,” she says. “You two are like… a real couple now.”
“You’re one to talk. You showed up to the Met with my ex.”
Tessa chokes on air, cheeks flushing a deep pink. “Excuse me? Matteo Basile isnotsomeone I’m dating. Don’t even say that againor I swear I’ll projectile vomit all over your heels.”
“Hey, he’s cute. I dated him myself. Feel free to have my sloppy seconds.”
“Oh, you’d love to give me shit about that, wouldn’t you?”
We laugh as we stroll past a gilded frame housing an enormous oil painting of a Venetian ballroom, the cool lighting from the chandeliers casting our shadows onto the polished marble on the floor. Tessa marches beside me, still grumbling under her breath about reputations and howsome peopleshouldn’t make flippant accusations when there are actual journalists lurking in the corners tonight.
“So,” I say casually, letting my fingers trail along the velvet rope that separates us from a gold-framed sculpture in the center of the room, “you said Matteo just happened to get tickets to the Evening for the Arts event? Was it through his father?”
Tessa shrugs. “I have no idea. Probably. He didn’t exactly go into detail. Just said he had an extra invite and thought I might like the excuse to wear a dress and drink fancy champagne in the Met.”
I arch a brow at her, and she pointedly looks away, suddenly fascinated by a marble bust of a woman whose nose has long since broken off.
We loop around another corridor, pausing for a second glass of champagne offered by a passing waiter. The bubbles hit harder this time, reminding me how I’m pretty much a lightweight when it comes to drinking.
I spot a familiar face in a crimson satin gown and immediately steer Tessa down a different corridor.
“Is that Giada De Rossi with some old grandpa looking guy?” she whispers, leaning in close.
“Yep.”
“Pivot?” she says under her breath, clutching my arm.
We pivot.
The exhibit in this wing is quieter, more modern, filled with abstract pieces and light installations that shimmer when we pass. At the far end, I spot an alcove labeled Women in Italian Expressionism, but before we can check it out, Tessa sighs and tugs on my arm.
“I have to pee. And I amnotholding it until the next exhibit.”
