Page 37 of On His Mind

I look outside and sigh. “I’m not driving hours through this. It’s dangerous, and it takes twice as long.”

“You’ll leave first thing tomorrow.”

I watch the snow come down like it’s been sent to help me, and I reach for the one card that’s ever beaten her. “I have a Christmas Eve dinner. With Oliver.”

She pauses. My mother respects exactly two things in my life, and one of them is a Whitmore. “You do? Why didn’t you say so?”

“New Year’s, too, most likely.” The lie comes out smooth. I’ve had good training.

“Well. Then I understand what you mean by work.” Warmth, now that I’m being useful. “I’ll call on Christmas. Goodbye, Penelope.”

She hangs up. I set the phone down.

Going home has never pulled at me, and I only have to remember my last winter break to know why. She laid a dress on my bed before I’d stepped a foot into the house — yellow, because she’d decided yellow. A seat at dinner beside a Harrington boy I wanted nothing to do with. My mother answering the question about my studio before I could open my mouth. My father, who caught my eye across the table, gave me a sorry look, refilled his wine, but didn’t bother to stop any of it.

Home is not a warm place. I’d rather be alone.

I spend the next few days inside my apartment in a tight routine. I do Pilates when I wake, have a high-protein breakfast, and then I draw until my hand cramps. It’s the kind of quiet I stayed for, and the solitude is great until Oliver texts me.

Oliver: I hear I’m taking you to Christmas Eve dinner.

My stomach drops.No, she didn’t.I look at the screen, read the text again, and wince.She did.

Oliver: The Camerie is the only place open in town. Eight o’clock.

I hear Lyla in my head saying,“He’s obsessed with you,”and I quiet the voice.

Me: I’ll see you there.

Thank you, Mother.

The Camerie is, unfortunately, exactly the kind of place I’d build if anyone ever let me build a restaurant. The ceiling dropsover the tables, the aged plaster, the way the bar is set against the wall, and the décor to go with it. I’m in love with this place before I’ve even reached the table, and Oliver somehow thinks it’s his.

“I like seeing you like this,” he says, once we’re seated. He isn’t looking at the room. He’s looking at me.

“I like the room,” I say, which is true and is not what he meant.

“Yeah.” He holds the look. “Me too.”

I turn my water glass a quarter-turn on the linen and remind myself this is a work dinner, my mother’s connection, that men like Oliver are the entire point of the navy dress, and that my mom is proud that I’m at a dinner with my boss on such a big holiday. I’ve nearly got myself back inside my own composure when the busboy leans in to fill my water.

“Thank you,” I say, looking up.

And it’s him.

Percy.

The recognition lands under my ribs before my head catches up — the black clothes, the careful hands, the quiet coming off him — and for one second the whole evening tips sideways and I forget the man across the table exists.

Percy meets my eyes for a single second, nothing in his as he fills the glass and moves down the row of tables like it’s nothing. Oliver is saying something, and I don’t hear a word of it.

“I need the restroom,” I say, and I’m up before he can point me in the direction.

I find Percy at the back, shoveling ice from a bin into a bucket. He straightens when he sees me.

“You work here?” I ask.

“For the break.” There’s no shame in it, no apology, just the flat fact of it.