Page 121 of Dying to Meet You

I’m only half listening, until Deacon suddenly says, “Oh hell. Darth Vader on your six.”

A hand clamps down on Hank’s shoulder. And my boss gets a sour look on his face even before the newcomer speaks. “Shots, Henry? There comes a time when the drunken bachelor thing stops being cool and starts looking pathetic.”

It’s Hank’s older brother, William Wincott the... fourth? Fifth? He’s an inch taller than Hank, and slimmer, with darker hair and a hard mouth.

“Lucky for you,” Hank says, “having that stick up your ass actually looks better with age, bro. You’ve finally grown into your dry personality.”

Deacon honks out a laugh, but William looks stormy. For a half second I wonder if he’ll haul off and punch his younger brother. But then a woman appears at William’s side. She’s a tall woman with the kind of complexion that could only be called “porcelain,” in a gorgeous floor-length gown. His wife, I think. Cecilia Wincott.

“Ooh, vodka,” she says. “Deal me in.” Then she puts a hand on Hank’s sleeve. “When am I getting a tour of the mansion renovation?”

“Absolutely,” her husband snaps. “Maybe he’ll throw an opening gala for his vanity project, and we’ll do more shots in the parlor that costs a few million over budget.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Hank says tightly.

“Should have sold the place and let some developer turn it into condos,” says William with a bitter laugh.

“What an interesting take,” I hear myself say. “Especially at an event for the Historical Commission.” And when heads swivel, I hold my hand out to William. “Hi, we haven’t properly met. I’m—”

“I know who you are,” William says, turning to fix his chilly gaze onme. “The architect who has cheap taste in men and expensive taste in fixtures.”

“Enough,” Hank snaps, grabbing his brother’s biceps and tugging him away.

The three of us are left standing awkwardly together, and Cecilia Wincott grasps my hand—still held out in greeting—and shakes it. “Sorry about that,” she says. “They make Thanksgiving fun, too. I’m Cecilia.”

“Rowan,” I say, swallowing my shock. “I’m the architect at the mansion. You can stop by for a tour anytime.”

“I’d love to,” she says, even as Hank and William hiss at each other from a few feet away.

I take another gulp of wine, and realize the glass is half gone already. I don’t even know how it happened.

44

Rowan

Hank’s mood never recovers. By ten p.m., I’m tipsy, but he’s officially drunk. And as Natalie would say, I’mso overthis party. At least they fed me dinner. I ate every bite, including the appetizer, the slightly overcooked steak and sides, and a tiny cheesecake they served for dessert.

When Hank finally decides that it’s time to leave, we fetch my coat and step outside, where it’s now dark and rainy.

“I really can take an Uber,” I offer as the wind whips the lapels of my jacket around. “It’s no problem.”

“That’ll take forever,” Hank says, pronouncing his words carefully. “And there’s my guy already.”

Hank’s Jaguar glides into view and halts at the curb. An older gentleman gets out. “Ready, sir?”

I march to the car, open the back door, and slide in.

To my dismay, Hank slides in beside me.

“Home, then?” the driver asks mildly.

“Two stops if you wouldn’t mind,” I say quickly. “I’m on Spruce Street, number fifty. Near Clark. It’s just a few minutes from here.”

“Of course, miss.”

I sit back and try to relax. It’s not that I’m afraid Hank will murder me in his Jag in front of a witness. I’m just exhausted, and I have so many questions without answers.

Without warning, Hank puts his hand on my bare knee. “Can I ask you a question?”