Page 138 of Dial F for Finance

I glance up. Forty feet away, past a governor and two chandeliers, my wife is watching me over the rim of her water glass with her eyebrow at full altitude.

Me:

I’m fine. Our friends have boundary issues. All of them. It may be terminal.

Jenna:

They mean well.

Me:

They do. It’s their only defense, and unfortunately it holds up.

Jenna:

Is it bad that I want to get out of here the second dinner ends so I can have my way with you in that tuxedo?

I nearly knock over the wine reclaiming my composure.

Me:

Mrs. Pemberton-Cruz-pending-litigation. Is this your way of trying to sext me at a charity function?

Jenna:

I’m contextualizing. There’s a difference.

Me:

Keep contextualizing. See what happens. I know for a fact that dress has no opinions and the Phantom has privacy glass.

Jenna:

The auction is in ninety minutes, Cruz. Bid on something and behave.

Me:

I already have my eye on the only thing in this room I want. Been outbidding everyone for the last three years.

Across the ballroom I watch her read it, watch her fight the smile and lose, watch her put the phone face down next to her salad fork like it misbehaved. Victory. I pocket mine just as the plates land—beef or halibut, the eternal gala binary—and the noise of two hundred guests settles into the warm hum of people eating stupidly expensive food. For charity.

I’m two bites in when Willa’s field marshal materializes between Caleb and me, clipboard against her chest, headset light blinking.

“Mr. Cruz? Change to the run of show. Mrs. James will speak during dessert and coffee—she’ll introduce her personal guests and their accomplishments, then you’re on directly after her remarks, before the auction.” She checks her clipboard. “She asked me to tell you, quote, ‘the stage is yours, make it count.’”

“Tell her I intend to.”

Two hundred people. A governor. Every friend we have. My whole life I’ve measured love by the size of the room I could run for someone—the bigger the crowd I can turn toward a person, the more seen they should feel. Jenna wants to be seen for her work. Tonight I have the biggest room in Chicago, and I intend to aim every inch of it in celebration of my wife.

The field marshal vanishes the way the best staff do. When I turn back, the entire table has stopped eating. Eight forks, suspended. Sixteen eyes, locked on me.

“What was that about?” Layla asks, vibrating.

I take my time. Cut a piece of beef. Chew. Let them suffer, because they’ve earned it, every last leaky one of them. Then I pat my breast pocket once, right over the small weight that’s been running warm against my heart all night.

“That,” I say, “is step one of making all my dreams come true.”

CHAPTER 39