She kept her tone even, professional, as she answered him. “It came together fast and the response has been tremendous.”
“And you’re holding the show at the library?”
“That’s right. It has a stage. The founder, George Sanderson, insisted the design for the library include one. He envisioned lectures and concerts.”
“Have you received many donations?”
“Far more than I anticipated. It’s been fun so far.”
Noah drank more of his water, then got to his feet in one smooth movement. “Is that where Olivia and Maggie got their dresses for the other night?” he asked as he walked over to the sink. “Did they come in with a donation?”
Phoebe plunged one hand into the cold water. “It’s a bit more complicated than that, but the short answer is yes.”
“And the masks?”
“My youngest sisters made those. Ava and Ruby—”
“The theater majors.”
“That’s right.” Phoebe tried to sound casual. “So how did you enjoy the ball?”
He leaned back against the sink and crossed his arms on his chest. “It was quite a night.”
Yes, it was, Phoebe thought. She hadn’t noticed Noah in the ballroom, but she’d been too caught up in avoiding Olivia and Maggie and dancing with her swashbuckler to notice much else. Then there’d been Brandon, and the man she’d overheard. She hadn’t even thought about Dylan’s best friend, although she knew they’d been hiking in the White Mountains.
Noah turned and got a stainless-steel grater out from a lower cupboard. “I can grate the parmesan,” he said.
Phoebe had the feeling his mind wasn’t on pesto but she smiled. “That’d be good, thanks.”
She laid the basil leaves on paper towels, watching him as he placed the grater and the hunk of parmesan on a wood cutting board. He glanced at her, and this time she paid close attention to the line of his jaw, the color and shape of his eyes. His smile was confident, knowing, but at the same time not at all easy to read, deliberately so, as if the man behind it guarded against letting anyone in.
She remembered her swashbuckler moving through the crowd to get to her, every movement precise, smooth, controlled.
It was all she could do not to gasp.
It’s him.
Her swashbuckler was Noah Kendrick.
If she’d been the one grating parmesan, she’d have cut herself. As it was, her hands shook. She tried to focus on blotting the basil dry but her mind was spinning. She’d danced with a billionaire. With Dylan McCaffrey’s best friend. She’d let him kiss her.
And he’d disappeared on her. Had he really meant to come back? Had he lost her? Had she left the ballroom too soon?
Does he know it was me?
Why hadn’t she recognized him sooner? His voice, his eyes, his lean build—so what if he’d shaved and wasn’t wearing a mask and cape?
She hadn’t expected that her swashbuckler would be Noah Kendrick. It was just that simple.
She blotted the basil, her heart hammering. Noah continued to grate the cheese for the pesto. It was all she could do not to think up an excuse and get out of there but she knew that would only draw more attention to her discomfort. He was a smart man. He’d figure out she’d asked him about the masquerade ball right before she unraveled.
Maggie had to know it’d been Noah in the swashbuckler costume. Why hadn’t she said so? Because I told her I didn’t want to know. No doubt Maggie had assumed Noah would never recognize her sister as his princess.
Phoebe didn’t understand the intensity of her reaction. Why not just admit she recognized him? That it was her in the Edwardian dress?
Because it hadn’t been her. Not really.
She should have just gone to the ball openly, with Maggie and Olivia. Then Noah would have known who she was. Probably he never would have danced with her—or if he had, they wouldn’t have gotten so carried away.
She glanced at him. He had a healthy mound of parmesan grated onto a cutting board. He gave no indication he thought of her as anything but the librarian friend of his best friend’s fiancée.
Of course, that was what she was.
Phoebe sighed and stood back from the sink. A slight breeze floated through the open window, calming her. Maggie would have given her note to Olivia, who would have given it to Dylan or even directly to Noah. That was why Noah had stayed behind in Knights Bridge. He wanted to figure out what the story was with this man in the coatroom. Dancing with a woman at a masquerade ball was probably par for the course for him, fun while it lasted but not particularly memorable.
Let us both pretend that night never happened.
As matter-of-factly as she could, Phoebe nodded to the clean, reasonably dry basil. “If you can chop the basil, I’ll roast the pine nuts and mince the garlic.”
“Then they all get pounded into a paste with the mortar and pestle.” Nothing in his smile suggested he knew that she could hardly get a decent breath. “I’m guessing, because I’ve had pesto.”
“We pound the basil and garlic first. Then add the nuts. Then the parmesan and olive oil.”