Page 8 of The Art of Scandal

“It’s not that far. I can walk.”

“You would do that?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

He didn’t know how to answer. Because she looked as lonely as he felt? He also wanted to impress her. She’d put him in some exceptional category of “beautiful men” who were worth her time, and he felt a sudden need to live up to the designation. “You seem like you’re having a rough night.”

She looked away and started chugging her drink. “Have you ever been in love?”

The question surprised him, and he answered “No” too quickly, before he could think. “I mean, I don’t think so.”

“Do youwantto fall in love?” Rachel asked.

“Maybe,” he said cautiously, because a simple yes felt too small for the conversation. She was so intense and focused on his answer that it was stifling. “Eventually. When it feels right.”

“It always feels right,” Rachel said. Her dreamy smile burrowed into his chest and slid inside a dozen places it probably shouldn’t. “It feels perfect. And you can’t imagine loving anyone else. Or even arguing. Or being cruel.”

“But there’s no such thing as perfect.”

“Yes, there is. There are some truly perfect things in this world.” She tried to prop her elbow on her knee, and nearly toppled over. He moved to steady her, but she righted herself like nothing happened. “A martini at the Savoy. TheVelvet Ropealbum. That fraction of a second before a first kiss, when you realize it’s finally going to happen.” She tugged his sweatshirt over her knees. “Those things are perfect. It’s people who are flawed.”

It made him think about Inez. It was scary to think he could have lost the love of his life already because he wasn’t paying attention. “Was it perfect for you? With your husband?”

She ducked her head and started maneuvering the sweatshirt until her hands disappeared inside the sleeves. “At first. Then it became unpaid labor.”

He thought about that pre-K press conference he’d watched. How her expression never changed, even when her own husband referred to her as an example of the “traumatic toll of marginalization in America.” It must have taken a lot of willpower to remain stoic while being used as institutional racism exhibit A.

“People say marriage is hard.”

She smirked, like he’d told a joke. “But they never tell youhowit’s hard. It’s always a rug being pulled from under you.” They locked eyes briefly before hers slid away. That’s when it clicked. This wasn’t just marriage problems. Matt Abbott had done something bad enough to have her crying her eyes out and drinking herself numb.

“Take it back,” he said.

She blinked. “Take what back?”

He realized how gruff he sounded and tried to lighten his tone. “The rug. Someone takes something from you, don’t let them get away with it. He shouldn’t call all the shots. Seems like he messed up, not you.”

“That’s nice of you to say, but you don’t know what happened. What if it was me?”

“What if you both fucked up, but he fucked up the most?”

That earned him a smile. “I think you’re just trying to make me feel better.”

She had it half-right. He also liked the way talking to her made him feel. Interesting. Capable. Like he was worthy of influencing her mood. “Is it working?”

“Yes.” Her eyes roamed his face. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Rachel’s eyes shifted down to his neck tattoo, and she rubbed the same spot on her throat. “Did it hurt?”

“Yeah,” he said, watching her fingers. There was truth in the way a woman touched herself. Rachel barely grazed her skin, like anything more would leave a bruise.

He must have been staring. She stood quickly and tugged at her dress. “It’s getting late. I should go.”

Nathan stood. “Are you okay to drive?”

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