“Here, Maureen.” I passed her the flowers and my purse. “Take these before I hit your husband with them.”
“Ooh! I love freesia! Mmm, smells so good! Thanks!” She dropped my purse on a table, burying her nose in the blossoms as we all followed her to the kitchen.
It was fabulous, of course, with gleaming quartz countertops and pale, white-washed cabinetry inset with seeded glass panels. Everything was perfect, from the stainless steel Wolf range to the Sub-Zero wine cooler. Crystal dishes with vegetables, fruits, and chunks of bread were displayed on the marble-topped island, and a bag of chips and a jar of salsa were nearby as if an afterthought; but it didn’t seem like there was enough food for a party.
She didn’t. “So . . . we’re the first ones here?”
She took longer than necessary to select a vase and then replied with all the innocence of a newborn babe. “We’re just missing one person. He should be here any minute now.”
Phil chuckled. “She’s something, isn’t she?” he said proudly, wrapping his arm around her waist.
“Oh, she’s something alright.”
“I don’t understand . . . ?” Cara’s voice was as small and fragile as she seemed to be, and it reminded me to show good manners—even though I now officially regretted coming tonight.
“It’s nothing,” I forced a fair imitation of humor into my voice, “Except Maureen apparently thinks a couples-only evening is a less stressful blind date than meeting someone at a party.”
Her eyes widened, and I knew I had one ally to get me through the evening. Maybe two, because Adam seemed a bit angry.
“Aren’t you at least going to tell her who it is? You haven’t yet, have you?”
No, come to think of it, she hadn’t. She’d dodged the question when I’d finally remembered to ask her on Thursday—and again this morning. I raised my eyebrow.
“Well, I didn’t want you to freak out or anything,” she ignored my unladylike grunt, “but it’s too late for you to back out now.”
That sounded ominous, but before I could manifest a full anxiety attack, a crystalline melody chimed. Doorbell. She ran out, and everyone else watched me as we listened to her cheery greeting—but at the answering male voice, Cara and I both jumped.
Cara slipped closer to her husband as Maureen led him, Mr. Olympian, into the kitchen; but I found myself marveling at the golden radiance he brought to the room. His blond, wavy hair and warm-toned skin infused the space with a honeyed glow, and my body responded before my brain could stop it. Stepping forward, I smiled, and then waited in awkward silence for Maureen to make introductions.
He was just standing there, tall and beautiful, and . . . uncomfortable? Our hosts exchanged a look, and I felt a rush of sympathy for the poor guy. They didn’t know his name! How in the world had Maureen not asked while she was playing Cupid?
Jesus Christ, Lila, you didn’t ask either.
True. Gathering my courage, I offered my hand. “We haven’t been officially introduced. Spilling coffee on you doesn’t count.” My cheeks warmed, but I pushed on, “I’m Lila, and you already know Maureen . . . and this is her husband Phil, and their friends Adam and Cara.”
I tried not to wince at his grip. He was hotter tonight than when I’d spilled coffee on him. No pun intended, though I couldn’t help but note the sculptural way his white linen shirt defined his chest. He still hadn’t spoken, and now his eyes were making more than my hand feel hot. A pop of red light, vivid and fiery, appeared between us and I was even more distracted. Not now, I begged it.
“I’m s-so sorry!” I fluttered, “We never exchanged names . . . ?”
“We have met.” His gesture encompassed not only Maureen, but Phil and Adam as well.
That’s right, Adam had said he’d met him. I glanced his way, but he showed no signs of knowing his name either. Nor Cara, though she’d acted like she recognized his voice. My confusion must’ve been obvious because Mr. Olympian zeroed in on me again.
“You can call me Sal.”
“Saul? S-a-u-l?” Not what I would’ve expected. Uncertainty flashed across his face, and I tried again. “S-a-l?” I waited for his slow nod and then explained, “Helps me remember names. To see them in my head.”
“Sal what?” Adam sounded annoyed.
“I do not understand.”
Maureen jumped in with a smile. “We just wanted to know your last name, too.”
“Stone.”
“Really?” Oops. Hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “I-I used to know someone . . . no relation, I’m sure . . . ” Not one of my better cover-ups, and my pause dragged into silence.
Phil clapped his hands together. “Let’s open some wine!”
Yes, please.
An hour later, I was still mulling over the name he’d given. It felt contrived—like an articulated puzzle I couldn’t solve because the answer was too obvious. Saul . . . Sal . . . Salvador? Salvatore? Salvatoré Stone? Sal Stone.
“So. Sal. What did you say you do again?” Adam’s question was barely on the polite side of a challenge.
We were seated around Maureen’s mahogany dining table, poking laden fondue forks into pots of melted cheese and chocolate and sipping rich red wine. Well, Cara and I were sipping water. I’d gulped the first glass Phil had offered, and now I was drinking water.
I was such a lightweight. One glass of wine, and angels were flickering everywhere. Literally everywhere. I tried to look past them to see Sal’s reaction to Adam’s question, but the pomegranate-red speck pulsing over his left shoulder wasn’t helping with my current attention issues—even if it was the size of a seed, rather than the whole fruit.
“I do advisory work,” he said, twisting his fork until his slice of kiwi was completely doused in chocolate.
“Who do you advise?” Adam pressed. Blue angels kept sparking into being at his chest and throat, then zooming toward Sal, only to disappear a foot or so away. And those were in addition to the ever-present swarm of white ones, so numerous that even their wee selves overflowed the space around Adam—and me.
I pinched the bridge of my nose,
