Chapter 12: Ask Her

The ballroom at the Palmer held two hundred people and one enormous chandelier.

I walked in on Vaughn's arm in a green gown, with a clutch that held lipstick and my second phone.

He had said nothing about the dress. He had stopped in my hallway, looked at me for a very long time and put his forehead against my shoulder.

I should have told him in the car.

I had opened my mouth twice on the drive. Both times he had taken my hand, kissed my knuckles and said, "After."

Now it was too late for after.

"Breathe," he murmured, as the room turned to look at us.

"I am."

"You're not. Count to four."

"You count to four."

"I've been counting since Wednesday," he said, "and I'm up to a hundred."

Rory waved from a table near the stage, looking pale.

The Chairman's table was at the front.

Richard Draycott rose as we reached it, with his cane and his cardigan under a dinner jacket, and kissed me on both cheeks.

"My two favorites," he said. "Sit, sit."

I sat beside him. Vaughn sat opposite.

The soup arrived. Nobody touched it.

"You look lovely, dear," Richard said, low, and under the tablecloth his knee pressed mine.

I moved my leg away.

He smiled and cut his bread.

Between the courses the board members came by to shake Vaughn's hand. Twelve of them came by, and I knew how many had been called that week.

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