Page 77 of White Lies

“Nick.”

At the sound of Faith’s voice, I down my drink, set the glass on a small table by the railing, and walk back inside. “Well?” she asks, holding out her hands to her sides. “How do I look? Is it too much? Too little?”

“Sweetheart, I don’t let women in my house, let alone invite them to dress here. So no one has ever asked me if a dress was too much or too little.” I close the space between us, my hands settling on her tiny waist. “But you lookbeautiful.” And she does. The dress is pink lace and knee-length, which offers me the benefit of easy access to her gorgeous legs. Her shoulders are bare, her blonde hair caressing the skin the way my mouth will later. And the neckline is high, reserved, but still somehow sexy—but how can it not be? It’s on her.

Her hands go to my chest, her eyes searching my face. “You don’t bring women here?”

“Never,” I say. “In the five years since I bought this place, not once. Just you.”

“Why me, Nick?” she asks, her tone earnest.

“Because you’re you, Faith. There is no other answer.” And while it’s the truth, it guts me to know that she’ll see it as one of my lies, and do so sooner than later.

“Where did you go?” she asks. “To their place?”

“Anywhere but here,” I say, when the truth is that I go to what is now my club—a place that doesn’t matter to me, but she does. “You’re nervous about tonight. Why?”

“Chris Merit is a big deal in the art world. His support could change my life.”

“You admire him.”

“Yes. He’s talented and successful. And even though he’s really not from Sonoma, he just always felt like a local, and if one local could make it, another could, too.”

“Did you admire Macom? Was that part of the draw to him?”

“I met Macom before he made it. We both loved art and the creative process. And yes, he’s talented, but it was different. I don’t admire him.” Her hands settle on mine at her hips. “He called me yesterday, and I just feel like I should tell you.”

I go very still, that possessiveness I feel for Faith rising up inside me. “And?”

“I didn’t take the call. I can guess what it was about. He heard, probably before me, that I was in the show.”

“And he wanted to congratulate you?”

“More to gloat. He’s been there, done that; but of course, he’d mask it as a compliment. I don’t need that in my life right now and just wanted to tell you, Nick.” She pauses and then adds, “Thank you.I’ve known you such a short time, and you’ve been more supportive of my art than anyone else in my life.”

“It’s self-serving,” I say, leaning in to brush my lips over hers. “I want a beautiful artist in my bed, and if we don’t go right now, I might rip this dress, too.” I turn her toward the door.

…

We arrive at the gallery at seven thirty, and it’s not long before we’re ushered into a room full of at least fifty people, shiny white floors beneath our feet, wavelike rows of displays in random places. Faith and I work our way through the crowd, and when we’re offered champagne for a birthday toast, we both accept. “My preferred drink,” she tells me, sipping her bubbly. “It’s sweet, and we don’t make it. It’s also low alcohol, and I don’t tolerate much.”

“You really don’t like the winery, do you?”

“No,” she says. “I really don’t, but I’ve never said that to anyone but you. Just now.”

My hand settles at her hip. “It’s our secret.”

She looks at me, shadows in her eyes. “That’s trust, Nick. Just in case you didn’t know.”

Trust.

That I’ve already betrayed.

“Welcome, everyone!”

At the shouted greeting, I look up to find Chris Merit at the front of the room, the only person here in jeans, but it’s rather fitting. He’s a rock star in this world. “I just want to say happy birthday to my wife,” he announces, “and to tell her how proud I am of her and this gallery. Enjoy the art and chocolate cake, because it’s her favorite.”

Everyone applauds, and there are shouts of “happy birthday.” Chris catches my eye over the crowd right as soft music begins to play. He motions us forward, and I lift a hand to acknowledge him. “Empty that glass,” I tell Faith.

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