And I want her to try because I love Holland Harper. And I can’t even tell her, not yet. Because I need this night to be over. I need her to feel what I feel when Griffin tells me she’s his. When Van suggests he’ll treat her better than I can. I need her to see the risk of losing me to someone else.
Frankly, I can’t think of another way. We don’t have a lot of time left.
So, yes, out at the folly, I’d been more than disingenuous. I’d lied. Because how could I ever admit to being able to walk away from her?
I can’t admit this is over. I won’t.
Not when I remember the way she’d looked up at me, rain bedraggled, her hair in disarray, her heart pouring from her eyes. She’d looked so honest and beautiful, and in pain. And days later, I still suffer a frisson of sensation when I recall how she’d leaned into me as though willing me to take her in my arms.
“There she is.” My sister beams, our little circle of people widening as Holland approaches. “My goodness, what a stunning dress!” Isla’s gaze isn’t the only one sweeping the length of her as Griffin’s eyes practically fall out of his head. I tighten my grip on my glass as an alternative to slapping him across the back of the head.
I don’t need to look. I drank my fill as she’d floated down the stairs, even if I wasn’t the only one watching. But it’s fine. I’ll be the only one watching as her dress slips to the floor at the end of the night. If everything goes right.
“You look gorgeous, love.” Griffin rests his hand at the small of her back. The hand I imagine snapping off at the wrist.
“Whoa!” I’m not sure that’s the response any of us had anticipated as Holland holds up her hands as though to shield her eyes. “I have no idea what you just said, Griffin. I couldn’t hear over the noise of your pants.”
“What?” Griffin’s gaze dips to his tartan trews as Isla and my companion—the girl Van eventually brought along despite his complaints; the girl Holland has yet to make the acquaintance of—begin to titter.
“I think Holland is trying to tell you your outfit is a little loud,” I murmur. The glance that passes between her and me is more than a little conspirative. What was he thinking? Red and green tartan trousers—not even the family tartan—a matching vest, and a forest green velvet dinner jacket.
“Are those house slippers?” Holland asks, her eyebrows raised.
Of course, we all glance down.
“No, these are Italian,” he protests.
“Aw, look. Your Italian slippers even have silky little tassels to match your bow tie,” she adds.
“You look like you should be on a shortbread tin.” Isla chuckles as she throws back the remains of her second glass of champagne.
“He’s just hamming it up for the American audience, aren’t you?” Holland smiles so sweetly at him, but it’s all fake.
“Unlike you,” he mutters, his attention sliding to me. “Where’s your sense of Scottish pride tonight? Left it with your kilt at the dry cleaners, did you?”
Holding out my glass, I glance down at my dinner jacket, inviting those around me to do the same. Though one person in particular. Double-breasted with a satin shawl, my jacket fits my torso like a glove.
“Is there something amiss?”
As it turns out, it was a good choice for tonight, seeing as the theme of the night appears to be a nod to the golden era of Hollywood. Not in an ironic sense but leaning more towards old-world glamour. Champagne saucers rather than flutes, the waitstaff dressed like usherettes. Jaunty angled pillbox hats and bolero jackets with golden tasselled epaulettes. Ostrich feathers and swags of silk ballooning over a makeshift dance floor. It looks like Ivy Duffy has gone all out.
“You look perfect,” the woman to my left purrs with perfect timing. I watch with some satisfaction as Holland’s eyes track the motion of her hand as it comes to rest on my chest.
“Holland, I don’t believe you’ve met Jessica, have you?”
“No.” Such a small word for the look of challenge that meets mine. Interesting. I usually pride myself on being able to read expressions, but it’s almost impossible to discern hers.
The women exchange greetings and compliments on their respective dresses, though I’ll note that Holland instigates this nicety, involving my sister in the conversation. I’m not sure it would’ve occurred to Jessica, geniality not being part of her remit tonight.
“Holland!” Van takes that moment to join us, our circle widening to accommodate him as he presses a kiss to each of her cheeks like they’re old friends. Even she seems a little surprised by this. Meanwhile, Jessica really is a better actress than I’d hoped for as she barely acknowledges him beyond a polite smile. He is her employer, after all. I wonder if they’ve—
Something pulls at the threads of my attention as my eyes narrow on my sister and one of my oldest friends. I might’ve said best friend, but for the way the pair seem familiar. Very familiar.
Someone has been lying.
Someone other than me.
Someone other than Holland.
What tangled webs we weave . . .
“Care to dance?” Van holds out his hand, and my sister responds in kind.
“I don’t remember the last time a handsome man asked me to dance,” Isla answers, positively beaming up at him.
“Holly, let me get you a drink,” Griffin says, turning to a passing waiter and a tray.
“Sure.” Her shoulders jump in a sign of agreement and perhaps discomfort. “So, Jessica, what do you do?” she asks, her tone erring on the side of brittle, somehow not quite bright.
“I’m an actress.”
“I’m sure you are.” Holland’s gaze briefly meets mine. “I’m sure you’re a great actress.”
Careful, Holland. Your claws are showing.
I hide my amusement behind the rim of my glass.
HOLLY
He looks better than he has any right to in a castle full of people whose beauty is regularly portrayed on screens all over the world.
“I meant what I said. You look stunning tonight.”
I lift my gaze from where Alexander is twirling his date around the dance floor like he’s a puppet master and she’s attached to his strings. I force a half-smile Griffin’s way.
“Thank you. I do love the dress.” Not for the first time, I spread my fingers over the fabric and glide my hand down my thigh. “It’s Valentino, did you know?”
He shakes his head, uninterested in anything but my legs. I guess I can rule him out of the dress mystery, which leaves only one culprit. The man with the cool and appraising gaze. The one who’d barely bothered to lift his head as I’d walked into the room while my nerves had jangled like a bunch of keys at my first glimpse of him.
“I guess this fake dating thing worked.” Griffin’s gaze follows mine to where it has slid back to Alexander. And Jessica, I guess. “I mean, it looks like he’s moved on, doesn’t it? He’s leaving you alone.”
I refuse to bite. But, honestly, I’m not sure. Not that I could explain it to Griffin. Did I feel sick to my stomach when she slid her hand across his chest? No, I actually felt like something inside me had curled up and died. And watching them dance makes me want to throw my glass at her. Or throw myself on the floor and cry. And while Alexander has been perfectly civil to his dance partner, attentive in fact, I’ve sensed his eyes on me more than once. I’ve felt his attentions like he was peeling back the layers of my skin. I’ve witnessed the weight of his want when I’ve glanced his way. I’ve observed as he has seemed to breathe in my words.