He looked down at the business card advertising the credentials and contact information of Petunia De Vere. His thumb moved to rest over the surname.
“I didn’t know Sebastian the way you did, but he was my grandfather, too.” Her bravado seemed to falter. “I hope he wouldn’t mind my taking his name.”
Across the distance between them, her anxious gaze fixed on his.
“I hope you don’t mind, either.”
Without waiting for him to respond, she turned and left.
He stared at the business card for a long time, before he tucked it into the photo frame on his desk, next to the silhouette she’d cut, the rendition of Sylvie’s profile.
After the day he’d had so far, he’d rather flash-boil his own eyeballs than trek across to the Starlight Circus in Holland Park for a few rounds of Johnny Marchmont’s daily vice, but one obstacle stood between De Vere’s and the Albany contract, and she wouldn’t be wasting time.
For all Sylvie’s rainbow-hued, bejeweled frivolity, there wasn’t a lazy bone in her body. Nor was she a procrastinator—
—as she proved when Dominic pushed open the ivy-covered door of the coffee shop, set off a night-themed soundtrack of owl hoots and nondescript rustling, and found her perched cross-legged on a floor cushion.
The door swung shut behind him with a thump. He tucked his hands in his trouser pockets and swept his gaze over the packed interior, from the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling to the scattering of picnic rugs and cushions.
There were no tables. No chairs besides two beanbags, both already occupied.
“If it isn’t Judge C.” Sylvie seemed equally unsurprised to see him, and not at all bothered by the strangers sprawled around her.
To be fair, most of them were in a world of their own. Many were wearing headphones. One guy had just starfished out on a rug and was napping in a happy pool of his own drool. Only one was paying Sylvie any attention, a young man with a Manchester United cap sitting staring fixedly at the side of her head, lost in admiration of her pink- and lavender-streaked plait. He had “postgrad student” and “optimist” written all over him.
One look at Dominic’s face and the budding lothario just about hid in his backpack.
Sylvie was eating a biscuit. She’d been chewing on the same bite for over thirty seconds. “What do you think?” she asked, finally swallowing. Her head inclined in the general direction of—everything. He’d seen less junk packed onto the odds-and-ends stall at a village fair. He didn’t know what to avoid looking at first. “Seventy percent toddler’s bedroom, thirty percent crack den, or the other way around?”
“I’d throw in at least ten percent low-budget slasher film.” With horrified fascination, Dominic locked stares with an enormous plastic clown and found he couldn’t look away.
He couldn’t even blink.
This wasn’t ideal.
“I was pretty sure you’d turn up tonight, too.” A pause, during which he could hear Sylvie chewing again. It sounded like hard work.
The clown’s pupils were spinning. Literally spinning.
Unless that was his own eyes.
Or his brain.
Nausea was kicking in a good ten minutes earlier than he’d expected. He hadn’t even ordered yet.
“This is like a cross between everlasting bubble gum and sawdust. I . . . Dominic?” Sylvie cleared her throat. “Dominic.”
Two fingertips touched his wrist. Dominic drew in a long breath. Briefly, he closed his eyes.
Turning deliberately away from the clown, he looked down into a bright hazel gaze. “I currently despise every atom of my existence.”
The faintest of lines feathered out from Sylvie’s lashes. They deepened now. “Poor baby. Completely out of your comfort zone.” She unwound her long legs to free a foot and nudged a plush purple cushion in his direction. “Pull up a pew and join us commoners. I saved you a cushion, and I hope you’re grateful. The bloke in the bobble hat was eyeing this spot, and in my efforts to secure it for you, I collided with the mechanical bear.”
She turned her arm and brandished her elbow, where the skin beneath her pushed-up sleeve was pink and scraped.
Dominic was fucking exhausted, and now addled by the Hypno-Clown. He almost reached out and took her arm. The unheard-of instinct that had just propelled into his muscles was to bloody stroke her.
Politely, Sylvie caught the attention of the barista. “Could you make it two Midnight Elixirs, please? Thank you.”
She was playing with the remainder of her biscuit, dropping crumbs. Everywhere she went, strewing small atoms of chaos.
“I would cling to the faint hope this is a dream.” He needed to get off his feet. Unwillingly, he hooked his boot around the cushion. When he lowered himself to sit, an arsehole vertebra midspine screamed that he was edging up on forty and spent his days leaning forward with a piping bag. “But even in nightmares, my imagination doesn’t pull up indoor tents and popcorn cannons.”
“No shit. I’ve seen your cakes.” Sylvie took another unenthused bite. “This place is way busier than I was expecting. I am seething.” She looked at the remaining piece of biscuit. He could see from here how overbaked it was. It was also glistening under the overhead spotlights and streaked with pink, although that could be traces of Sylvie’s lipstick. Her lip curled. “This tastes nothing like my Celestial Cloud Cookies.” She set it down on a napkin and shot a glance at the demonic clown. “And the décor is ugly.” With obvious satisfaction, she finished, “‘Emerging competitor to Sugar Fair,’ my arse.”
There was a piece of card under Dominic’s foot. He flicked it around without interest and realized it was the menu.
Popcorn Cappuccino
Penny Pops
Star Bright Fudge
Darren’s Daringly Delicious Dewdrops
“Mmm.” He lifted the menu and turned it over to see if it got worse. Darren Didn’t Disappoint. He appeared to be surrounded by escapees from an Enid Blyton book. “I can see where the comparison came from.”
In life, there were many sudden silences. Awkward silences. Companionable silences. Confused silences.
And those moments when the world abruptly went so quiet that all you could hear were the icy breaths of your approaching demise.
He lowered the menu. Any hint of amusement had disappeared from Sylvie’s face. She leaned forward, and her palm landed on the remains of her dry biscuit. She squashed it flat.
Judging by her expression, she’d prefer it was one or both of his testicles.
In lethally sweet tones, she inquired, “Are you seriously putting this nightmarish profusion of thrift-store rejects and unparalleled tackiness on remotely the same level as my gorgeous, magical dream come true?”
“Weak tea, dude.” For a moment, Dominic thought Sylvie’s admirer, the Man U fan, was delivering an unsolicited review of his beverage, but no. Just an indictment on Dominic’s recent life choices. The kid shook his head in heavy disapproval. “Insulting your woman’s work. Not cool, man.”
And the day edged further into surrealism.
“I’m not his woman,” Sylvie said, with a level of revulsion usually reserved for blocked drains and maggot infestations.
Her ally brightened. He whipped the cap off his head and edged closer with a coaxing smile. “In that case, would you like to—”