Le Caquelon in Santa Monica is closed tonight for our private party. Alaine, Damien’s childhood friend and best man, owns the fondue-style restaurant, and has graciously offered it for this evening’s party.
I love the place, with its funky decor and wild colors. The last time I was here, Damien and I shared a very private booth. Tonight, everyone is gathered in the main restaurant. We are laughing, talking, and toasting. And, of course, indulging in the various fondue pots that Alaine has scattered throughout.
He has turned off the restaurant’s normal New Age music in favor of piping Rat Pack tunes from the speakers. Apparently he is aware that Damien and I share a love of Sinatra, Dean Martin, and the rest.
I smile at Damien, who is talking to Ollie and Evan across the room. He leaves them, then strides to me and pulls me close, easing me around the makeshift dance floor before dipping me, much to the amusement of the other guests. “I am a genius,” he says.
“So I’ve been told.”
“I also own a stereo,” he adds.
“This is also a fact that I’m aware of. I assume there’s some sort of connection coming.”
He points to the speakers. “We don’t need a band tomorrow. We just need a DJ.”
I gape at him. “You are a genius. Except I already told Sylvia to hire a band.”
“She didn’t have the heart to tell you, but they’ve all been booked.” He leans closer, nips my earlobe, then whispers, “I think you may be exhibiting signs of stress. My assistant was trying to protect you. I can’t say I blame her.”
I laugh and push him away, then immediately pull him back into my arms. “You’re in a good mood.”
“Of course I am. Haven’t you heard? I’m getting married tomorrow.”
“Lucky man,” I say.
“Very,” he replies, and the intensity of his gaze acts like an underscore to the word.
“I have something for you,” I say, tugging him to the far side of the restaurant where all the women have piled our purses. I had brought a huge tote, and now I pull out the present wrapped in silver paper.
He takes it, his expression so much like a boy on Christmas morning that I laugh with delight. “Go ahead,” I urge.
He peels off the paper, studies the book, then slowly opens it. I know the first image he sees—a snapshot of the two of us in Texas six years ago. It was an offhand shot by a local news reporter and it never even made the paper. I lucked into it after a call to the paper’s morgue. “Nikki,” he says, and there is awe in his voice. He flips through the pages, and the love I see in his eyes makes my knees go weak.
I watch as he examines every page, every memory. When he is finished, he closes the book with reverence, sets it gently on the table, and then pulls me close. “Thank you,” he says, those two words holding a lifetime of emotion.
He kisses me gently, then leads me back to the crowd. “I have a gift for you, as well,” he says, then looks at his watch. “I need about fifteen more minutes.”
My brow furrows as I wonder what he could be up to, but I nod. “That gives me plenty of time to make the circuit and eat more chocolate. Come with?”
“Of course,” he says, then follows me to the chocolate fondue station. Alaine is there, and we chat for a while. Then Alaine and Damien go off to talk with Blaine and Evelyn. Since I have something to ask Evelyn, I almost follow them, but Ollie approaches, and I pause to give him a hug.
“Hey, deposition guy. How goes the wild and woolly world of civil litigation?”
“Wild and woolly,” he replies with a grin. “And over. At least for a few weeks.” He waves to Charles Maynard, his boss, then leads me into a corner. “Charles asked if I wanted a transfer back to New York.”
“Really? Why?”
“Courtney, I think. I asked for the transfer to LA originally to be closer to her. Now that we’re not a couple . . .” He trails off.
“Are you going to take him up on the offer?” Ollie and I haven’t been as close lately, but I know that I will miss him if he moves.
“Thinking about it. But I’m on the fence. I love Manhattan, but LA has its perks, too.” He looks at me as if there is something else he wants to say.