Page 15 of Stick to the Deal
Soft pink lips smile wider. God, even her makeup looks off. “It’s really that bad, isn’t it? Grandmama Dearest picked it out. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at cotton candy the same way.”
I chuckle as a server fills our wine glasses. “Not bad, just not you.” Her eyes widen and so does her smile. Leaning in, I continue, “I’ve never been happier to see someone at one of these things before.”
This time she chuckles. “Me, too. Further proof we made the right choice. It is odd that we haven’t run into each other before, though.”
“My parents usually attend dinner parties, or my brother.”
“So anyone but you.” There’s amusement in her voice, but it doesn’t feel like she’s laughing at me.
“Most people prefer it that way. You seem to be an exception.”
“Aren’t I always, though?” She wets her lips and I find myself staring.
“Nicolette.” We straighten with a start. I hadn’t realized how close we’d drifted together. It mustn’t have been too unseemly, because Mrs. Ashcroft continues, all smiles. “So lovely to have you back, dear. You must join us for dinner soon. My grandson is an art collector, and I’m sure you’d hit it off.”
A swift flare of jealousy lights through me. Which is completely ridiculous. True, she is my fiancée, but no one knows that yet. There’s no ring on her finger and it’s not a love match.
I can’t seem to help it. Even on the plane, when Nic had joked about picking another candidate, some residual Neanderthal DNA screamedmineand wanted to maim men she’d never met.
“Your dinners are always lovely, Mrs. Ashcroft.” Nic’s smile is polite and the older woman glows under the compliment. My damn male ego happily notes her reply wasn’t a yes.
“What a beautiful name,” a middle-aged woman across the table speaks up, “and what a beautiful dress.”
Nic stiffens slightly next to me, but her expression doesn’t change as she politely thanks the woman. Ever the hostess, Mrs. Ashcroft rushes to makeintroductions. “Oh, Laura, have you not been introduced? Nicolette is Vivienne’s granddaughter. She’s been abroad for a while, but is back to stay.”
“I do so love spending time abroad,” the other woman enthuses. “Were you in France? Italy?”
Servers set down the starters.
“America, mostly. Though I do travel much of the time.”
“Ah, I was wondering about your accent.”
“Nicolette grew up in America, until she came to live with Vivienne,” Mrs. Ashcroft explains.
Next to me, Nic’s already rigid posture radiates tension. The two matrons don’t notice as they continue this obviously sensitive conversation. Without thinking, I shift my hand under the table to grip Nic’s fisted hand. It trembles slightly in my grasp before turning to hold my own.
“I’m afraid what little accent I picked up has dulled. That’s the price for being a world traveler, I suppose.” Nic adopts an innocent expression and both women twitter as if she made a joke. She pats her lips with her napkin, though I haven’t seen her lift her fork.
Mrs. Ashcroft is the first to recover. “Nicolette takes the most darling pictures, Laura. You simply must see one.”
Laura nods sagely. “It is so important for one to have a hobby.”
“It’s much more than a hobby.” Heads turn towards me at my sharp tone. I swallow and try again. “Nic is an extremely talented photographer. She recently spent a month in New York completing a piece for Time Magazine. Celebrities beg her to take their portraits.” Our end of the table is silent, not even a fork can be heard. Slim fingers squeeze my hand.
“Well,” Mrs. Ashcroft’s smile is a little strained, “it certainly sounds as if you have a fan. Laura, dear, how are the children doing?”
“Thank you,” Nic whispers towards me as she pushes the appetizer around her plate, “but you didn’t have to do that.”
I don’t bother to hide that I’m speaking to her, but match her volume. “It’s true. Diminishing your career is completely unacceptable. You are very talented, Nic.”
An inky brow lifts. “Where have you seen my work?”
“Your website, after we met.” And her entire Instagram account, not that I’ll admit to it. “What made you choose photography?”
“My father was an artist, so I grew up surrounded by it. We explored every medium together.” Her throat flexes and her eyes dim, lost to memory. “When I went off to boarding school, there wasn’t much room for paints or easels, but I had a camera.”
“And how did you settle on magazine work?”
