Page 39 of Red Hot Harmony

A smile tilted the side of his mouth, and in this fashionably dim light that shimmered across his face, he looked stupidly gorgeous. Like a huge chunk of newly discovered precious stone that everyone wanted to own, but no one could, because he’d given himself to me.

The song ended and applause from the audience filled the space between the walls of the building and I didn’t understand how we went from talking about the possibility of my being a shitty mother to my worshiping him in astute silence.

A rush of heat from where our hands were connected shot up my arm and I felt it spreading through me, lighting me up from the inside. The sensation was a mix of foreign and painfully familiar. I’d dreamt of it before, but I couldn’t remember if I’d ever experienced it in real life.

A single note—a guitar chord indicating the start of a new performance—was what crashed the moment apart, into dozens of pieces, transporting me back to the venue.

During the intermission, when all the guests poured out into the lounge again to socialize and silently bid on the auction items to raise money for charity, I saw the way Dante stared at the wine glasses. There was a muddiness in his gaze, muddiness I hadn’t witnessed before tonight. Perhaps because I hadn’t been paying attention, but that look on his face made me question my own choices and all those drinks I’d had in front of him at his insistence.

We were talking to the lead singer of some obscure 90s band that I may or may not have heard of in my teens when Greg’s form emerged in my peripheral.

He wore a black suit and a navy tie with a white shirt. His shoes were polished to perfection and his short, dark hair had been slicked back and styled with such precision, he could pose for a magazine cover.

My stomach roiled, wine and appetizers no longer getting along.

To my right, a singer with a goatee was talking about his last visit to Japan. Apparently, Japanese fans were the best.

Then Eden showed up out of nowhere. “Can I steal him for a second?” She grabbed Dante’s arm and drew him past the press of bodies and into the obscurity of the venue.

“So what do you do for a living, Camille?” the singer asked.

“Wedding dresses.”

“Wow. Interesting. And how did you get into that line of business?”

“I inherited it.”

“Wow.”

“I’m sorry, I have to make a call,” I excused myself, not wanting to hear him repeating the same interjection over and over.

It was a bad move on my part, though, because somehow, I ended up running into Greg. Part of me understood that if I’d be attending events of this caliber, this was going to happen sooner or later, but I preferred for our paths not to cross altogether.

“Camille.” He gave me a perfunctory nod, a glass of what looked like amber-colored hard liquor was clutched in his hand.

“Greg.” I came to a halt.

We were at the fringe of the room, away from the crowd. Here, the light spilled from the walls in bright strips, slashing the floor and illuminating one side of his body, which gave his appearance a little edge.

“You look good,” he said, his gaze raking over me slowly from head to toe.

I shivered, my chin tilting up as my back stiffened. “You look good too.” He did. He really did. Age had only made him more handsome. Even the tiny threads of silver streaking his temples contributed to his sort of James Bond allure.

I could see why I’d wanted to have him so badly that night sixteen years ago during my bender.

“How’s Ally?”

“She’s...great actually.” Something white-hot and angry formed in my chest and pushed its way out. “Too bad you chose not to participate in her life.” I didn’t know why I said it. It was never an option for us, for him to assume any paternal duties aside from the child support. And I’d never brought it up before, but something had compelled me to do it now. Perhaps years and years of trying to keep the words in.

A muscle in Greg’s jaw ticked. “Come on. I thought you were better than that, Camille.”

“Better than what?”

“I don’t want to argue over something that’s in the past.”

“Ally’s not in the past. She’s fifteen years old.”

My fingers curled into a fist at my side, but I kept my smile on.

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