Maybe it’s you, you jealous fuck.
I cleared my throat. I needed to remember the real reason I was here. It wasn’t to go into a jealous fit about the pretty woman across the table. I had one purpose, and one purpose only: to figure out this family’s connections to John Carson. Whatever they might be.
Nina felt guilty about Eric’s persecution. And I still didn’t have a solid reason why.
“If you don’t mind me saying, you’re taking being passed over pretty damn well.” I took another tack. Return of the good cop, so to speak.
Nina sighed, but relaxed visibly. “At first…well, I won’t pretend I was pleased. But Eric and I grew up together. He’s more like my brother than a cousin. Even after he left…well…I think it’s fair to say that I could never hate him. And he didn’t ask for any of this.”
I tipped my head. “Seems a little odd that the two of you would have been so close. You’re what, three, four years younger?”
“Not quite three.” She shrugged. “We were all each other had.”
“Wait a second,” I said. “Back up. When I met you, you said you were twenty-nine.”
She raised a brow. “And I was. For three more weeks after that too.”
“I missed your birthday.”
For some reason, the idea really fuckin’ stung. Not because Nina wasn’t some twenty-something ingenue anymore—honestly, that never really fit the bill for her anyway. It was because the idea of missing any of her milestones gutted me. Like I should have been there. That I should continue to be there. For the big moments, like turning thirty. For the small ones, like a haircut.
When it came to Nina de Vries, I didn’t want to miss a fuckin’ thing.
Except she’s not yours to miss.
I offered my glass in toast, hoping the bravado would mask the sting. “Well, happy birthday, Mrs. Gardner. And to thirty more, and thirty more, and maybe even thirty more after that. Cincin.”
Nina waited a moment, then clinked her glass to mine with a sadness she didn’t bother to hide. There was something about her response that made me wonder if anyone had bothered to celebrate with her.
“Your husband,” I said. “What does he do? Is he involved in the family business too?”
It hadn’t escaped me that in telling her story, Nina had avoided the biggest elephant in the room. She’d touched on all the major highlights of her life—her illustrious family, her daughter. But beyond our brief exchange, the man hadn’t really come up.
“Calvin?” she asked.
“Yeah, good old Cal.” I hated his name already.
She frowned. “Calvin.”
“How did you and Calvin meet?” I pressed on, though the idea made me sick. “Lots of mutual friends?”
“Not exactly.”
I waited, but it soon became clear she wasn’t going to offer any more than that after she stuffed two agnolotti into her mouth, then two more in quick succession. So I decided to fuck civility and pull out my phone for a quick Google search. Not just of him this time. Of them both.
Photos of the two of them immediately came up, thought nothing yet about their courtship. It was probably buried by features on the Gardners at symphony premiers. Hospital benefits. Gallery openings. Everywhere you’d expect two wealthy benefactors of the city to show up.
Nina, of course, looked stunning in every shot. The woman couldn’t take a bad picture.
“You look like Grace Kelly here,” I said, pointing at one. “That dress is like the gold one she wore in To Catch a Thief. More white, of course, but with that same gleam.”
Her husband, however, was a far cry from Cary Grant.
He wasn’t as terrible looking as I’d originally thought. Just incredibly…ordinary, but like a man trying his absolute hardest not to look ordinary. He had a snub nose and a mustache that came and went depending on the year. His skin had that orange, weathered tinge of someone who spent too much time at tanning salons, with a reddish nose that betrayed a penchant for too much booze. His suits always fit just a little too tight around his midsection, and his hairline conspicuously grew about an inch forward about five years back. Plugs probably. And dyed too. When Nina wore heels—and she should always wear heels with those legs of hers—she had about two or three inches on him, which only enhanced the feeling that he was compensating for something.
As always, it was impossible to hide my shock. This was the guy who snagged the goddess of the Upper East Side? This guy bagged the work of art in front of me?
Ten years they’d been married, she said. Ten fuckin’ years chained to a guy who looked like a round of stale focaccia.
“Put it away.”
I looked up to find Nina watching me. Her expression wasn’t surprised—maybe just disappointed. My reactions had clearly been playing all over my face, and she didn’t like what she saw.
I ignored her command.
“He just looks…different than what I imagined.”
Nina’s eyes narrowed. “He looks exactly how a man of forty-eight should look.”
I was right. That was quite a little age gap there. Which would have made him thirty-eight and her…twenty when they got married. Which meant she was probably a teenager when they actually met.
Nina. A doe-eyed eighteen or nineteen-year-old.
Then walking down the aisle with a moth-eaten motherfucker old enough to be her father.
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
We examined each other for a moment, both of us obviously aware that we were about to have two separate conversations simultaneously—one on the surface, the other in subtext.
“Well,” I said as I tucked my phone away. “Now I know what kind of guy ends up with Nina de Vries.” Your husband looks like he lives under a bridge.
“He’s changed a lot over the years. As most of us do.” He wasn’t always an ogre.
I took a bite of pasta. “So, how did you meet?” How did Shrek land a twenty-year-old goddess?
“Mutual acquaintances introduced us.” It was practically arranged, but I’m not going to admit it.
“Was it a big wedding?” Did your family hate him as much as I already do?
“Not like Eric and Jane’s, but it was nice. We were married at St. Mark’s and had a small reception at the Waldorf. Just family and a few friends.” No one was excited to watch me kiss an orc.
“And Olivia?” Was it a shotgun wedding?
“She was born the year after.” Maybe, but I’m not going to admit that either.
“Why haven’t you had any more kids since then?”
Nina set her fork down on her plate. “Are you finished with the third degree, Matthew?”
I dropped mine too. “Actually, no, I’m not. I have a lot more questions, Nina. And I’m going to keep asking them until I get the whole story.”
“What whole story?”
“The one you’re not telling. By my count, I’ve pursued at least four separate lines of inquiry tonight that you’ve completely ignored.”
“What in the world does my marriage have to do with helping my family free themselves from John Carson?”
“I don’t know yet. But those connections have a way of making themselves clear under the right circumstances.”