Page 147 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
“Finally, Marlow decides to play cupid andbam. An auction. His daughter is practically delivering him to me on a silver platter.”She laughs, throaty and triumphant. “And once I’ve paid my price, I’ll throwmyselfon a platter for him later. He’s mine. It’s only a matter of time now.”
My pulse hammers. I grip the counter to ground myself because the room feels like it tilts sideways. I want to whirl on her, spit fire in her face, tell her she doesn’t know him the way I do—doesn’t know how he takes his whiskey or the way his eyes crinkle when he’s actually laughing, doesn’t know that his walls are high because he still mourns the love of his life.
But my tongue stays locked in my mouth.
Because I can’t have him either.
And if I can’t, then why should it matter if she tries?
The very thought slices me in half—hurt and fury tangled so tight I can’t tell them apart.
I glance again, reallylookat her. Malina. Gorgeous, successful, a little cutthroat. And damn it, on paper, she makes sense for him. She’s in Grant’s world. She could slide right in without breaking stride.
And Marlow clearly wants this. She’s invested. She’s orchestrating it. Her father being happy with a woman like Malina is something she can get behind.
I’m the complication. The secret. The mess.
I press a tissue to my lips and swallow hard, my reflection blurred in the mirror.
If he’s meant to be with someone…maybe it should be her.
Then I look at her again.
Nah. Fuck her.
Grant
Since I wore a black masquerade mask for Halloween, I decided to wear a gold one for this ridiculous ball Marlow insists I participate in. I stopped at the tie though. I’ve worn suits and ties for the better part of thirty years and I’ve come to enjoy life without them. Without the stuffiness.
So this black suit, white button-up, and my gold mask ensemble will have to do. It’s enough to serve the purpose of the night. Enough to stay hidden from the right people. But also enough for her to notice me.
Just in case.
When I got home last night, I couldn’t sit still. I paced my living room like a caged animal, replaying every second of the evening in her apartment. The laughter, the wine, the way she leaned into me when Olivia and Fitz ended up in aninevitablesituation. It felt like we’d done it a hundred times before. Being in her space felt like redemption. Like coming home.
Of all the ways I’d imagined being with her behind closed doors, in her apartment, I’d run through the possibilities more times than I could count. I pictured her curled against me, maybe even drifting off to sleep there—soft, unguarded, mine for just a moment. But never—not in my worst imaginings—did I think it would end with me standing there like an idiot, scissors in hand, and a chunk of her hair lying on the floor.
I’ve tried everything from texts full of apologies, even a peace offering of croissants from Holly’s delivered to her before her stylistarrived, still warm from the oven. Her response? A single middle finger emoji. Nothing else.
For a moment, I’d thought I’d broken through. That she’d actually wanted me there, in her space, in her life. And I was ready—ready to dive headfirst, no hesitation. Now all I can do is sit here, replaying the sound of scissors through her braids, and pray she doesn’t break into my penthouse in the middle of the night to pour acid in my shampoo.
The gala is already in full swing by the time I arrive. A blur of sequins and champagne flutes, violins humming somewhere behind the chatter. I’ve been to more events like this than I can count, and they’ve all blurred into one long evening of handshakes and polite laughter. The only difference tonight is her.
I spot her instantly. Doesn’t matter that the ballroom is overflowing with sequins, feathers, and gowns made to blind a man. My eyes don’t wander. They land on her, like they always do.
Eslin.
Silver mask catching the light, lips painted the color of forbidden fruit, hair styled so perfectly you’d never guess what happened last night. She looks like she belongs here—regal, untouchable. And yet, all I can see is the girl from her couch.
The one laughing at Olivia Pope’s drama with a bowl of popcorn in her lap. The one who trusted me enough to let me close, to let me see her unpolished, unguarded. The one who didn’t need a mask or a gown to be the most stunning woman in the room.
And no matter how flawless she looks tonight, I can’t unsee that girl—the one with hair scattered everywhere and light in her eyes. The one who makes even disaster look beautiful.
I should keep my distance. God knows I’ve told myself that enough. But every time I see her, that resolve lasts about as long as it takes for her to glance my way
And she does. Right now.
Even across the ballroom, I feel it when her eyes land on me. The pause. The inhale. Like something inside her skips and sputters before finding its rhythm again. And I know—because it happens to me too.
