“Uh, yes.” I lift a querying brow. “I’m not famous or anything. How’d you know?”
“Merrin tells me it’s only a matter of time. She thinks your book will be an instant success.” He extends his hand to shake mine. “Phil, by the way. The husband.”
“Oh, nice to meet you. She told me you’re a professor at NYU, right?”
“Yes, economics when she hates to even balance a check book. We’re exact opposites in just about every way imaginable, but we make it work.”
“That’s amazing. She said you’ve been married . . .a long time.” I laugh. “I can’t remember how long.”
“Thirty-three years. We married when we were ten years old.”
“As young as you both look, I halfway believe that.”
“We keep each other young. No one else I would have chosen to do this life with. Did she tell you about our girls?”
“She did mention you have four daughters.”
“Yes, all of them will be home for Christmas next week. Our youngest is actually coming a little early. Should be here tonight. You may get to meet her. She just divorced.”
“Oh, sorry to hear that.”
“We aren’t.” He grimaces. “We never liked him. Asshole.”
“Wow. Sounds like it’s a celebration.”
“It is. We’re glad she didn’t waste any more time on that . . .” He shakes his head, a frown pleating his brow. “You have to let your kids make their own choices, their own mistakes, but we knew from the beginning he wasn’t good enough for her.”
Before I can respond, Merrin summons us to the dining room for dinner. I’m glad to be seated beside Phil at one end of the table, while Merrin holds court at the other. Two authors across from me also have books releasing soon, so we commiserate about all the shit that comes with navigating the publishing industry.
“It’s been a fantastic year,” Merrin says, standing to address us about an hour into dinner. “Tonight is just my way of saying thank you for trusting me with your book babies. You’re all so talented and I promise to always do my best to let the world know that.”
She raises her glass, lips parted to go on, when there’s a sound at the front door. The sound of keys and shuffling steps.
“Oh!” Merrin beams. “That’s probably my daughter.”
I lift a glass of mulled wine to take another sip, but my hand freezes halfway to my mouth when the woman who is presumably this daughter walks into the dining room and straight into Merrin’s arms.
It can’t be.
I’m dreaming again, only this time it has to be a nightmare because surely my agent’s daughter can’t be—
“Sinclaire,” Merrin murmurs, squeezing her daughter close. “You made it.”
“Yep. Caught an Uber and came straight from the airport,” Sinclaire says, turning to face the table fully for the first time, her expression chagrined. “Sorry to interrupt, everyone. I . . .”
Her eyes lock with mine and her mouth falls open like a startled fish.
“Shit,” she says, the curse very loud in a room gone silent.
My sentiments exactly.
What are the odds that the woman I had a one-night—correction one-hour stand with—would be my agent’s daughter? Would be home for Christmas?
Would look even better than the last time I saw her. In a lemon-colored sweater and dark jeans ripped at the knee paired with leather boots, hair wild and free tonight, she’s exquisite. Her dark eyes stretch when they meet mine, and I see the same panic reflected there that has scattered my thoughts. As much as I wanted to see her again, not under these circumstances. What if her mother finds out? Merrin’s my agent. I fucked her daughter.
At a swing party.
Seated beside her father, a rather large man with hands that could crush me now that I take notice, sweat beads along my forehead.
“What’s wrong, honey?” Merrin asks, frowning.
“Nothing. I . . .” Sinclaire averts her eyes, rubs the back of her neck like it’s tight all of a sudden. “I didn’t realize I’d be interrupting the party.”
“Nonsense,” Phil says. “Come on down here. There’s an empty seat and we’ll get you a plate.”
An empty seat beside me.
What have I done to offend the ghosts of Christmas past so grievously that this is how they repay me?
“I can just go to my room and—”
“Don’t be silly, baby.” Phil pulls the chair out beside me. “We got you right here.”
She meets my eyes for a nanosecond, dismay clouding her expression, and then she comes, approaching like she’s taking a long walk on a short plank.
When she sits beside me, she smells the same. A mix of vanilla and something unidentifiable that could just be the way her satiny skin absorbs the scent. I fix my eyes on my half-empty plate, denying myself a long hard look at the contrast of delicate and bold her profile offers.
One of the servers brings a loaded plate and sets it down in front of Sinclaire. She stares at it for a few seconds before shifting her gaze to me. It’s only then that I realize I’m not denying myself at all, but I’m actually staring at her, taking in the bevel of her cheekbone, high and curved. The fine-grained skin like velvet stretched over a loom. She widens long-lashed eyes at me meaningfully, and drags a wary gaze from her father to her mother at the other end of the table.
“How was the flight, Claire?” Phil asks, eyes crinkled with affection at his daughter over the rim of his wine glass.
“Oh.” Sinclaire takes her fork from a napkin and spreads the roll of linen across her lap. “It was great. Fine.”
“Glad.” He slices into what’s left of the delicious lamb chop. “Wasn’t sure you’d make it out of O’Hare ahead of the snow.”
She answers only with a nod, eyes lowered as she samples the grilled Brussels sprouts and whipped sweet potatoes.
“And what about Trey?” Phil asks, a line deepening between his salt and pepper brows. “The papers came through? I hope that no-account Negro hasn’t been—”
“Daddy!” Her horrified gaze pings between her father and me. “Can we not talk about him? Please? Everything is settled and final. We’re . . .It’s over.”
Despite the discomfort of the situation, some of the weight lifts in my chest. Maybe it’s excellent champagne, two glasses of mulled wine, the lamb chop, the conversation—I don’t know what does it—but my perspective flips on its head. What if this isn’t the universe’s punishment, that I fucked my agent’s daughter at a swing party and could end up dropped from the firm, unrepresented before my novel even hits the shelves? What if it’s a gift, a what are the odds offering from the hook up deities? I haven’t been able to evict Sinclaire from my thoughts and she has occasionally plagued my dreams. I’ve inquired, not so subtly, about how I could find her, with no success.
Until tonight.
Through no finagling of my own.
Maybe this is a gift.
“Since Claire doesn’t want to talk about the idiot who shall not be mentioned,” Phil says, slanting a wry smile to his daughter. “Why don’t you tell us about your novel, Harper.”