Page 17 of Shattered Oath
"No."
"Sew a hem?"
"Absolutely not."
"Then I think we're done here."
"Ah, but I can do something else." He ducked behind the bar and emerged with a small plate. Cheese, olives, some kind of cured meat. "You haven't eaten today. I can tell."
I stared at the plate. "How could you possibly tell that?"
"You have the look. The one my sister gets when she forgets lunch.” His expression was knowing, gentle. “Very focused, very irritable, very likely to murder someone over a wrong shade of ivory."
I laughed despite myself. "I'm not that bad."
"Eat first. Apologize when your blood sugar is stable." He pushed the plate toward me. "Please,Bella. It will make me feel useful."
I took an olive. Then another. The salt and brine exploded on my tongue, and I realized I was actually starving. I'd had coffee for breakfast—hours ago—and nothing since. He watched with quiet satisfaction as I reached for the cheese.
"You're very pushy," I said.
"No,Bella. I’m attentive. There’s a difference."
"It's the same thing."
"That depends on your perspective." He leaned against the bar, arms crossed. "So. A charity for young designers. This is your project?"
"One of them." I reached for another piece of cheese, giving up all pretense of not being hungry. "I had a lot of people help me when I was starting out. Seemed right to pay it forward."
"That's admirable."
"It's practical.” I shrugged. “More diverse designers means more interesting fashion. Everyone benefits. The whole industry gets better."
"Practical and admirable. A rare combination." He tilted his head, studying me. "You know, when we met in New York,I thought you were... how do I say this? Very polished. Very controlled. The kind of person who has everything figured out."
"I don't have anything figured out." The words came out more honest than I’d intended.
"I'm beginning to see that." His smile was soft, understanding. "I like this version better. The one who eats olives at ten in the morning and rants about ivory shades and cares deeply about things that matter."
Something warm bloomed in my chest. Something dangerous and complicated that I didn't have time to examine. "I should let you get back to your crisis. ButBella, I was thinking?—"
"Isabelle."
The voice came from behind me. I turned, olive halfway to my mouth.
Femi stood at the edge of the gallery space, looking devastatingly handsome in a charcoal coat that probably cost more than my first collection. His eyes found mine immediately, then flicked to Matteo with the briefest assessment before returning.
"I thought you weren't coming," I said, lowering the olive slowly.
"I wasn't planning to." He crossed the space between us, each step deliberate. "But then I thought—how could I not? You're launching something brilliant tonight. I wanted to see it."
"Femi, I'm working. I don't have time to?—"
"I know, I know." He reached me, and his hand found the small of my back without hesitation. Warm, yet possessive. "I won't get in the way, I promise. I just wanted to wish you luck. Tell you I'm proud of you. And perhaps take you home afterward, if you'll let me."
I was acutely aware of Matteo behind me. Still. Quiet. Watching this exchange with those observant eyes that missed nothing.
"I..." I turned back to him. "Thank you for the wine, Matteo. And the food. You were right—I needed it."
