“I didn’t meant to upset her!”
“I know.” étienne reached for Libitz’s shoulder and squeezed it gently. “Nothing’s going on between you two, right?”
“Right!” said Libitz. “Nothing! We barely tolerate each other!”
“He gets it,” said J.C. quietly from behind her.
“She’s just”—étienne shrugged—“pregnant. Superemotional. Worried about the party on Sunday. Still trying to get the house the way she wants it before then. And in about ten minutes when she stops crying, she’s going to be so embarrassed…Please, just—”
“We’ll act like nothing happened,” said J.C., who stood up behind Libitz. “Tell her not to worry.”
“Thanks,” said étienne, giving them a grimace before heading for the door. “It’s not you. It’s her.”
Libitz watched the door swing back in étienne’s wake, then reached up to press her hands against her hot cheeks. It had been a long time since she’d seen Kate so upset, but it was a good reminder that no matter how handsome or charming she found Jean-Christian Rousseau, nothing was allowed to happen between them. Absolutely nothing.
She turned to face him, uncertain of what to say in the wake of Kate’s exit.
“I feel terrible.”
“We didn’t actually do anything.”
“I know,” said Libitz. “But she’s pregnant.”
He cringed, shrugging his shoulders before sitting back down in his chair. “I didn’t see that coming.”
Nor had she. “It was a good reminder.”
“Of what?”
“That nothing’s changed since the wedding. You and I are not a good idea.”
J.C. scowled as he reached for his glass, raised it to his lips, and took a long sip. “Not that it matters. You’re with Neil. Neil the baker with a long baguette.”
“He’s nice,” she said, hating how weak the words sounded in her ears but unable to think of anything more compelling to say about Neil.
“Nice.” He looked up at her, nailing her with his dark-green eyes. “Does Nice Neil make you feel the way I make you feel?”
Her cheeks flared with heat and she dropped her eyes, suddenly fascinated with Kate’s kitchen table. “I don’t know what you—”
“I know I affect you, Lib. The same way you affect me. There’s no use in denying it.”
“Actually, there’s a lot of use in denying it,” she said softly, tracing her finger over the wood grain of the table. “Denying it is for the best.”
“You really believe that?” he asked, his voice low and careful.
She looked up at him and nodded. “I do.”
“Why? We’re obviously attracted to each other. Why not…?”
“Because Kate’s right. We’re family.” She sighed. “Or we may as well be. We’re going to be Noelle’s godparents, J.C.—”
“Jean-Christian.”
“What?”
He leaned forward. “Call me Jean-Christian, not J.C.”
“Fine. We’re going to be Noelle’s godparents, Jean-Christian. That needs to be our priority, not some fling with zero chance of lasting and a great chance of making things really awkward between us.”
He flinched as she spoke, leaning back in his chair as he stared at her like she’d just hurt him. “Okay, Elsa. Have it your way.”
Her phone buzzed in her back pocket, and she reached for it, grateful for the distraction.
“Nice Neil the baker?” asked J.C., reaching for the bottle of wine and adding the remainder to his glass.
“No,” she said, reading the text. “A client…looking for a Kandinsky.”
Libitz hit “Reply,” hating that she had to say no, because Mrs. Carnegie was a client Libitz had been trying to land for three full years. To have Mrs. Carnegie at her gallery showings, for other dealers to know that she was a client, would be a huge boost for the L. Feingold Gallery. But the sad reality was that Libitz didn’t have a Kandinsky to sell—he wasn’t an artist whom she collected. She could direct Mrs. Carnegie to a different gallery in New York that might have one, or she could offer to try to obtain one, but that would take time, and surely Mrs. Carnegie wasn’t accustomed to waiting for—
“You have one?” asked J.C., er, Jean-Christian.
“No,” she said, shaking her head, “but my friend Camilla might.”
“What if you did?” he asked.
She looked up at him. “If I had a Kandinsky? I’d sell it to her, of course.”
“Would you make a good commission?”
“Of course. Money’s no object for Georgiana Newland Carnegie.”
“But I think there’s more to it,” he said intuitively.