“And you are still the worst,” I growl as I tug my door free of his grip.
He manages to move before I slam it on his hand, but I still catch his teasing laugh and his parting words: “You’ll love me someday.”
The next day is not that day.
No, not when Rowan invites himself to my breakfast-for-one at the hotel restaurant. Nor when he shows up in the mall as I shop for an outfit, even though he does carry my bags and help me pick out a cute little retro-style halter dress. It’s just a ploy to gain an advantage, after all. Crafty fucker. And someday is definitely not today when I park at Thorsten’s grand, secluded home in Calabasas and Rowan’s rented motorcycle is already there. He’s leaning against it, hot as sin in a black leather jacket, his gaze raking from my toes to my eyes with a look like that sets me on fire, and he knows it.
“Evening, Blackbird,” he says as he pushes off the side of the bike.
“Butcher.”
Rowan draws to a halt in front of me as I cross my arms and cock a hip. “That’s a pretty dress. Someone help pick that out for you? Whoever they are, they clearly have impeccable taste.”
“Great taste. Absolutely zero boundaries.”
He grins. “I’m so happy we’re on the same page.”
I give him my most dramatic eye roll and am about to launch into him when the front door swings open and Thorsten stands on the threshold with his arms spread in greeting.
“Welcome, my young friends,” he says, looking ready to host illustrious guests. His white hair is perfectly coiffed. His burgundy jacquard dinner jacket shimmers in the setting sun. The smile he flashes us has a hidden, sharp edge. “Please, do come in.”
He steps aside and motions for us to enter the palatial home.
We start with cocktails in the living room where first-edition books and ceramic figurines and paintings surround us, and I take the time to appreciate the art as Thorsten gives us a tour of his collection, his most prized possessions carefully labeled. Even after he’s moved on, I stare for a long while at a signed drypoint and etching print by Edward Hopper called Night Shadows. The sketch shows a man from overhead as he walks alone on a city street, the lamplight casting deep shadows around him. Something about him seems sinister. He could be stalking. He could be hunting. And when I look left and right, I see the narrative emerge from the art that engulfs me.
To my left, a black and white photograph by Andrew Prokos called Fulton Oculus #2. The image evokes the feeling of an all-seeing, ominous eye made of steel and glass.
To my right, a painting by John Singer Sargent of a woman sitting at a dinner table. She faces the viewer, her hand wrapped around a glass of red wine. A man sits next to her at the far right of the image. But he’s not looking at the viewer. He’s looking at her.
Beyond that, a print of The Waltz, by Félix Vallotton. It depicts couples dancing, but they seem almost ghostly. The woman in the lower right corner looks like she’s asleep.
After that…
I look at Rowan and place my cocktail on a coaster and leave it on the side table, untouched. He’s immersed in conversation with our host and doesn’t notice me.
But Thorsten does.
“Drink not to your taste, my darling?” Thorsten asks with a tight smile.
“It’s delicious, thank you. Just saving myself for your wonderful collection of wine,” I reply with a bow of my head.
His smile seems more relaxed when he sets his own drink down and declares it’s time to move on to the main event.
“I can’t tell you how elated I am to have a professional chef grace my table this evening,” Thorsten says, leading us to the dining room where classical music plays on a low volume and candles flicker among the dark flowers of an elaborate centerpiece. He points me toward a mahogany chair covered with plush red velvet, pulling it away from the table and pushing it back in as I sit. “And his lovely companion as well, of course.”
“Thank you,” I say, dropping a demure smile to my place setting. I don’t know anything about antique bone china, but I’m willing to bet Thorsten would have an absolute fit if any of it were smashed.
I file that thought for later.
“And such a lovely couple you make. How did you meet, anyway?”
“Oh, we’re just friends,” I say at the same time that Rowan says ‘an expedition in the bayou.’
We give one another a pointed look as Thorsten laughs. “Seems like you might have differing opinions on the subject of your relationship status.”
“Well, it’s hard to compete with the stunning wait staff and Rowan’s adoring socialite regulars,” I say with a sickly sweet smile.
“No one competes with Sloane.” Rowan’s eyes anchor on mine, dragging me into the depths of a navy sea. “She just hasn’t realized it yet.”
Our gazes stay locked for a heartbeat that feels too heavy in my chest. But the suspended moment is cut too short as Thorsten chuckles, the pop of a wine cork breaking the connection between us. “Perhaps tonight she will. Let us take inspiration from the art of cuisine. For as Longfellow said, ‘Art is long, and time is fleeting, and our hearts, though stout and brave, still, like muffled drums, are beating funeral marches to the grave.’”
Rowan and I exchange a glance as Thorsten focuses on pouring his wine, and I manage to roll my eyes and catch his fleeting grin in reply before our host can look our way.
When my wine is decanted into an etched crystal goblet and Thorsten has settled into his chair, he raises his glass for a toast. “To new friends. And for some of us, perhaps one day more than just friends.”
“To new friends,” we echo, and a sliver of unexpected disappointment finds its way beneath my skin when I realize I’d hoped Rowan might repeat the last line of the toast instead.
Our host takes a sip of his wine and I do the same, figuring it must be safe enough to drink if he’s taking a long pull. He holds up his glass and grins at the ruby wine. “2015 Tenuta Tignanello, ‘Marchese Antinori’ Reserva. I do love a nice Chianti,” he says. He takes another sip, closing his eyes on a deep breath before his lids snap open. “Let us begin.”
Thorsten picks up a little bell next to his place setting, its tinkling melody flooding the dining room. A moment later, a man enters with slow, careful steps, pushing a silver serving cart toward the table. He appears to be in his late thirties, tall, athletic with broad shoulders that stoop as though the muscles have recently forgotten they have a job to do. The yellowing remains of healing bruises rim his vacant eyes.