Page 29 of Not His Bride
“I think we could actually be friends.”
Something in his face softens. “I’d take that.”
I lean over before I can think better of it and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Gallagher goes completely still beneath it, which makes me smile when I pull away.
“Thank you for tonight.”
His eyes stay on mine. “Anytime.”
There’s too much packed into that one word, so I stand before I start unpacking it. Some things are better left alone until I know what they mean.
When he drops me in front of my building, there’s no dramatic final line. He simply wishes me a good night and waits for me to step through the door.
I do. But there’s this desperate ache to look back.
I ride the elevator up, letting the quiet hold me together until I’m safely through the door, back in my space.
The playbill from the performance slips out of my purse. I set it down beside the mask and the raven, a perfect trinity. For a long time, I can only stare at it.
I don’t know what comes next, but I know I can’t write him off anymore. And I suspect he knows that, too.
Chapter 13
Lilith
For the record, first launches never look the way you daydream them in the dark. They smell better. Or at least, mine does, because I’m launching my set of triplet candles.
The boutique is called Empirix. The owner likes everything dramatic: heavy doors, matte black shelves, and a marble counter wrapping around the entire store. Today, that counter is hidden behind a display of my own products—Velvet Masquerade, in the flesh. Empirix is one of the fifty boutiques that are selling my products in the United States, though customers can also purchase online.
The first customer at Empirix pays cash. That’s when the launch becomes real. Not when I walked in and saw the display. Not even when Gallagher’s name appeared in my texts this morning, confirming he’d be there. It’s when a woman I’ve never seen before decides she wants the candle enough to take it to the counter and exchange actual paper money for the box with my logo.
Empirix’s owner hovers in the background, but she isn’t micromanaging. She’s already busy giving Maison Ziterweigen the kind of welcome normally reserved for heads of state. He’s taller than I remembered, but maybe it’s the posture, ramrod straight and composed, like his suits. He’s wearing a blue tie, and the pin at his lapel is the special gold one. He had also RSVP’d to my launch.
He surveys the display. Then, with one hand, he lifts a box and tests the weight of it. He doesn’t say a word, just runs his thumb along the edge, nodding.
People around us catch on fast. First, the couple with the trade show badges, who nudge each other and pretend not to take pictures. Then, a younger guy in a trim jacket who looks like he’s on someone’s marketing team. Suddenly, half the boutique wants to be near the display, or at least snap something for later.
Ziterweigen corners me after ten, when about thirty percent of my product has already sold.
“You did a wonderful job,” he says, voice pitched low. “This is exactly what I pictured when we discussed your vision. And the execution”—he lifts the glass again—“is perfect.”
He rotates the jar. “I especially admire the mask logo. It’s memorable.”
“Thank you,” I say, thinking about the last launch I did. Not for myself, obviously, but for Jovi Group. Debbie handled the photo call while I hid in the back, double-checking inventory numbers on an iPad. My only souvenir was a spreadsheet. Today, the only thing in my hands is my own product.
He holds out the candle. “May I?”
I nod, so he opens the lid and inhales.
Ziterweigen takes one slow breath through his nose. His thumb pauses against the rim before he snaps the cover back on.
“What is the best-selling scent?”
I gesture to the display. “Smoky Gray, but it’s early. Raven Claw is close behind.”
He nods. “It will resonate. I can see it already.”
The owner is at his side next, gushing about the chicness of the maroon accent and how the color draws people in. I stand there and listen, soaking in their compliments.
