Dear Stranger (Paper Cuts #3), page 26
Meanwhile, Margaux lived and breathed boys, boss-girl besties, and being seen.
We may share facial features and a shoe size, but that’s where our similarities end. Our personalities are night and day. If we didn’t look undeniably identical, I might question our genetic relation.
“Fine, whatever,” she says with a relenting sigh.
“Relax.” I make my way to the side of her bed, adjust her blankets, and give her a reassuring smile before handing her the TV remote and her cell phone. “I’ve got this. Just rest, watch a funny movie, scroll TikTok, and try to refrain from puking your guts out again, okay?”
Sinking against her pillows, she nods. “I’ll try.”
“I’m going to grab you a ginger ale and some buttered saltines, and then I’m out.” My watch vibrates on my wrist, letting me know my Uber driver is almost here. My stomach somersaults. Even though this isn’t my blind date, it’s nerve racking all the same.
A first date is a first date is a first date.
I head to the kitchen and return with her drink and crackers and collect my phone, keys, and purse off her dresser where I’d left them earlier. She’d cornered me the second I got home from work—a mere fifty-two minutes ago—and begged me to go on her date tonight. Apparently she’s gunning for a promotion, and her boss keeps dropping hints about setting her up with her single nephew. Coming from personal experience, I know what it feels like to not have the job you want, the job you’ve worked your entire life to have. I’d hate that for her.
“Sloane?” Margaux calls out before I leave for the night.
“Yeah?” I turn back, leaning against the doorjamb.
“Don’t try too hard, okay?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t want him to like you . . . I mean me,” she says. “I don’t exactly have the best track record with relationships.”
It’s true. All Margaux’s romantic endeavors tend to go down in flames. The splits are rarely mutual and always accompanied by some dramatic fanfare. I love my sister, but I’d pity any man who attempts a relationship with her. There aren’t a lot of men who can handle her larger-than-life persona and her boss-girl energy. She’s not some diminutive wallflower with stay-at-home-wife ambitions. She has a personality, and she likes to call the shots. Most men tend to be more intimidated by her than anything. She’s yet to find her equal, even in a city of millions.
“If I dated this guy . . . and if for some reason it didn’t end well . . . Theodora could have me blacklisted from the industry.” Sitting up, she adds, “Be nice. Be pleasant. But maybe don’t flirt with him. Maybe . . . maybe just be boring.”
Of all the things my sister has asked of me in our twenty-seven years on this planet, this one takes the cake.
“Can you do that?” Her round baby blues are filled with hope. “Can you be boring?”
“According to you, I already am, so it shouldn’t be that hard,” I say with a little more sarcasm lacing my voice than I intended. It’s not easy being the introvert of our duo, to be made to feel like some kind of social pariah for not having twenty best friends on speed dial, for preferring a quiet Friday night in to an expensive blacked-out blur of a night out.
“Stop.” Margaux rolls her eyes, her expression softening. “You’re not boring. You’re just . . .” I hold my breath, waiting for her to replace the word boring with some adjacent term that’ll only serve as a backhanded compliment. Something like quiet, reserved, or introverted. “You know what I’m trying to say. Anyway, thank you for doing this. Truly. Thank you.”
My watch vibrates, letting me know my ride is here.
“What’s this guy’s name?” I adjust my purse strap over my shoulder before tugging at the itchy lace sticking out from my collar. “I don’t think you’ve told me yet.”
“Roman Bellisario,” she says. “Theodora showed me a picture of him once. Dark hair, dark eyes, razor-sharp jawline, tall . . .”
Margaux’s voice grows distant as she continues to describe him, and the world around me fades away by the second.
I don’t need to hear another word.
I know exactly who he is.
“My ride’s downstairs.” I swallow a hard lump that has suddenly formed in my throat. “Guess I’ll . . . see you in a few.”
Before I shut the door, my sister calls out a quick good luck—which is ironic because that’s exactly what I’m going to need to get through tonight.
CHAPTER TWO
ROMAN
I trace a fingertip against the side of a perspiring crystal tumbler, focusing on the indentation on my left ring finger where my platinum wedding band has resided for the past ten years—three years too long, if you ask my aunt Theodora.
If it weren’t for the mindless chatter of bar patrons around me, I could almost hear her voice gently scolding me for still wearing it, not mincing a single word as she reminds me I’ll never find another woman with that thing on my finger, all but referring to it as deadweight.
But that’s kind of the point.
I don’t want another woman.
I want the one I had before she was heartlessly ripped from this world without warning by some spineless coward who hit her with their car and fled the scene before they could answer for what they did. The fact that the bastard is still out there, living life like nothing ever happened while our lives were permanently altered, is something I’ve yet to get over.
I don’t know that I ever will.
Not even sure that I can.
“Another one, sir?” The young, overly friendly bartender points to my empty drink. He can’t be much older than twenty-two or twenty-three, if I had to guess. Judging by the stars in his eyes, life hasn’t screwed with him yet.
But it will.
Sooner or later, it always does.
I check the time on my phone—my blind date should be here any minute.
“Might as well.” I slide the glass his way, and he uncaps a bottle of top-shelf Macallan, pouring two fingers’ worth and then some, like he senses I’m on the cusp of something . . . unnatural. I’ve never been one to let nerves show, but I imagine I’m giving off the kind of vibe that tells everyone within a ten-foot radius that this is the last place I want to be tonight. “That’s good. Thank you.”
I take a sip and scan the restaurant portion of the bar in search of the poor woman my aunt sent to “save me from myself.”
Her words, of course.
For the past few months, she hasn’t stopped telling me about one of her employees at Lucerne Product Development, some blue-eyed, blonde-haired, bubbly “fun-time girl” who would “pull me out of my shell” and “usher me back into the world of the living.”
I didn’t waste my breath telling her blondes have never been my type.
And I love my shell—it’s impenetrable.
It’s Teflon and Kevlar and Fort Knox.
It’s where my daughters are.
It’s my entire world . . . what remains of it, anyway.
While I’ve no doubt been existing with one foot in the grave and the other one in the land of the living, there’s no time stamp on grief. It takes however long it takes. I’m not going to hurry it up so my meddling-but-well-intentioned aunt has one less thing to worry about.
That’s the thing about death—it’s inconvenient as hell, and there’s not a damn thing anyone can do about it.
Nevertheless, Theodora is the most persistent person on the face of the earth. She refuses to take no for an answer—which is how I ended up here . . . at the bar of some hotel restaurant in Gramercy Park, waiting for some poor stranger who’s likely only doing this as a favor to her insistent boss.
Sliding my phone from my pocket, I pull up the Lucerne Product Development site, tap on the employee directory, and type in the name my aunt gave me: Margo.
Zero results.
Exhaling, I change the spelling, this time searching up Margaux.
The first result, Margaux Abbott, looks old enough to be my grandmother—white hair, chained glasses, librarian frown and all.
The second listing, Margaux Sheridan, matches Aunt Theodora’s description of blonde and blue eyed. A blinding white smile that takes up the entire lower half of her face alludes to the bubbly part. I zoom in, examining her as if I’m looking for clues to some mystery—or a sign that tonight’s not going to be an awkward, uncomfortable, complete waste of time.
Pale-pink earrings in the shape of large-petaled flowers hang from Margaux’s ears in her company directory photo, and her lashes are much too long, dark, and thick to be natural. A triple-layer pearl necklace is fastened around her neck, and a diamond cameo brooch adorns her lapel. I can’t be sure if she’s going for a coastal grandma look or if this is some kind of a joke.
Darkening my screen, I return my phone to my pocket and my attention to my scotch.
“Mr. Bellisario?” A petite hostess dressed fittingly in head-to-toe black places a palm on my shoulder. “Your table is ready.”
Drink in hand, I follow her to a corner booth with a single flickering candle, a pristine white tablecloth, and a small vase of three red roses in full bloom.
It’s so romantically cliché it’s almost laughable.
Once seated, I take a deep breath, get my shit together, and steal a glance around the room. All around me, silverware clinks against china and stemware. Voices drone on, conversations layered one on top of the other. The smell of expensive perfume and aftershave dances through the air, mixed with the savory scents of a five-star dining experience.
Everywhere I look are couples, their faces painted in soft candlelight as they gaze across the table at one another with stars for eyes. This restaurant gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “Love is in the air.”
Theodora chose this place on purpose, I have no doubt.
I haven’t been on a first date since Emma, and the day I married her, I promised she’d be my last date.
My forever date.
Death has a way of changing things, though, of making agreements null and void whether you like it or not.
I check the time, resisting the urge to roll my eyes at the fact that the allegedly effervescent Ms. Margaux Sheridan is eight minutes late. I’ll give her seven more, and then I’m leaving. If there’s anything I’ve learned in the past three years, it’s that life is too short for the things that don’t matter—like blind dates people agree to under duress.
For a moment, I visualize my life as sand falling through the center of an hourglass, each granule representing a second I’ll never get back. When you lose something—or in my case someone—it forever alters your perspective on things.
All a person has, truly, is their time.
Everything else is inconsequential.
“I’m so sorry I’m late.” A breathy voice pulls me from my muddling thoughts. Glancing up, I’m met with frosty Alaskan-blue eyes, a fringe of dark lashes, and hair the color of glazed honey and summer sunshine. “Traffic was terrible getting over here, and the Uber driver refused to take a different route and—never mind. I’m here. That’s all that matters, right?” Her full lips pull into a nervous smile before she extends her hand like she’s about to interview for a job. “Margaux. Margaux Sheridan. It’s nice to meet you.”
She’s no Emma, but at least she has basic manners.
That and she’s not the worst thing in the world to look at. Far from it. I’d have to be blind not to notice the subtle, radiant beauty emanating off her, quietly commanding my attention. Not that I have any intention of doing anything with said attention, but maybe tonight won’t be the worst thing I’ve experienced in a while.
Could absolutely be worse.
“Roman.” Rising, I meet her buttery-soft hand with mine and give it a firm shake better suited for a business meeting than a date, and then I wait like a proper gentleman as she takes the seat across from me.
Studying her in the quivering candlelight that filters the space between us, a strange twinge of familiarity hits me—like I’ve seen her somewhere before. I’ve never set foot in my aunt’s building downtown, so it wouldn’t be that.
“I’m sorry . . . Have we met before?” I ask.
She squints as if she’s studying me. “Um, no? I don’t believe so?”
“You look familiar.” My gaze narrows as I try to place her, but my concentration is interrupted by our server.
“I get that a lot.” She orders a cucumber gin and tonic before turning her attention to the food menu.
Sniffing, I say, “I took you as more of a rosé kind of girl.”
“I would never.” A flicker of a grin crosses her full lips before fading completely, like it was never there to begin with. Nerves, perhaps. I won’t hold it against her. “There are rosé girls, then there are cucumber-gin-and-tonic girls. I can see how you might mix us up, but trust me, we’re night and day.”
Witty without being flirty.
I can respect that.
“Fascinating,” I say with a gracious smile to compensate for my sarcasm. “So, Margaux, tell me about yourself.”
I hate this.
I hate every damn second of this.
It’s not who I am. It’s not who I want to be. It’s not where I want to be.
My muscles are riddled with tension, perhaps in an attempt to keep me from crawling out of my skin.
“Oh,” she says, eyes sparking as if she’s surprised by my question. That or she’s nervous. I tend to have that effect on people—but tonight I’m doing my best to not come off like a giant prick allergic to happiness. It’s the least I can do since she got dressed up and came all this way. “Um, what all has Theodora told you about me?”
“Very little, actually.” I don’t want to offend her with the fact that my aunt sold her as a good-time girl. To Theodora’s generation, that sort of label has other connotations. I also don’t want to offend her by confessing that I asked zero questions because I have zero interest in pursuing anything beyond this insufferable evening. “What has she told you about me?”
“Not a whole lot.” She looks around the restaurant, though whether she’s searching for our server and her drink or taking in the scenery is beyond me. It’s all the same, I suppose. Tucking a strand of glossy hair behind one ear, she returns her serene gaze to mine.
“Okay, so on that note,” I say as if I’m conducting a work interview, “let’s start with you.”
This is excruciating.
And it’s clear I’m going to be doing the conversational heavy lifting tonight.
“What do you want to know?” She blinks at me with those baby doll eyes of hers, and I’m not sure if there’s a single thought behind them.
My jaw tightens, and a dull ache floods the sides of my face as a tension headache forms in real time.
Margaux toys with her pearl necklace, tugging on it as if it’s almost choking her. In the process, the top button of her cardigan has come undone, revealing a hint of creamy skin, but the rest of her is conservatively covered despite the early-summer heat wave we’re having. When she’s finished fussing with her necklace, she pulls at the itchy-looking lace collar of her sweater.
Nothing about her looks comfortable.
Nothing about her looks like she wants to be here either.
Perhaps we have something in common already.
CHAPTER THREE
SLOANE
This is painful.
Physically painful—all the way to the marrow of my bones.
I’m baking in this sweater and filtering every word that comes out of my mouth in an attempt to ensure that I’m dreadfully boring per Margaux’s orders. My back hurts from sitting straight and proper and my face hurts from smiling and my head hurts from nodding.
It’s taking everything I have not to wince and cringe my way through this clunky, flavorless conversation.
I take a generous swill of my gin and tonic, which isn’t kicking in fast enough.
If Margaux were here—like she was meant to be—she’d breeze through all this small talk with a smile on her face and a witticism on the tip of her tongue. That woman has the art of conversation down to a science. She can talk to anyone, anywhere, about anything, and make it look like child’s play. She can walk into a room full of strangers and walk out with five new best friends and an invitation to be in some stranger’s wedding.
Me, on the other hand? I’d rather stick a rusty needle in my eye than talk about the weather, mayoral candidates, whatever new restaurant opened up in the East Village last week, or my favorite Hamptons hot spots. Superficial topics have never appealed to me.
At least I’m killing it in the uninteresting department, though I can’t tell whether Roman’s eyes are glazed over because of his half-empty glass of liquor or because I’m quite literally boring the man to tears.
“Food’s taking a while, isn’t it?” he asks only a few minutes after we order.
I get the sense he wants the evening to hurry along just as much as I do.
“Places like this aren’t exactly known for their speed,” I say in the most monotone voice I can muster in accordance with Margaux’s rules. “Plus, I think it’s only been five minutes.”
Who knew three hundred seconds could feel like three hundred years?
He takes a substantial sip from his glass. I swear each drink that passes his lips is bigger than the one before it. The next time our server stops by, he’ll be due for a refill, and the night is exhaustingly young.
I steal a look around the restaurant—it’s all I can do to distract myself from the fact that I’m sitting across from Roman Bellisario . . . a notoriously elusive and demanding New York art collector whose reputation I’m far too familiar with, given my line of work. As the director of the Westfeldt International Art Gallery in SoHo, I’ve conversed and negotiated with his personal curator more times than I care to count, though this is the first time I’ve ever been face to face with the jerk himself.
