Page 55 of Love and Other Champagne Problems

“He felt bad for having to cancel our virtual meeting, but he wants to talk more over email until he comes into town for the wedding. Interesting that he’s ready for conversation now, isn’t it?”After I had told you that I wished we could’ve talked more.

If Sumner picked up on my insinuation, he didn’t make it clear. “Isn’t it a good thing?”

“Of course. I am going to be meeting him in two weeks when he comes for the wedding. Maybe I can coerce him into sending a picture of himself. Of his hands, even.”

“Hishands?”

“I’ve recently discovered I’m a handsgirl.”

Sumner’s gaze dipped a little to my wine glass. “No way you’re already tipsy from that small pour.”

I ignored him. “You have nice hands,” I mused, looking down into the depths of the peach. One more sip and it’d be gone; one more sip and so would he. “I noticed that the other day, on the golf course. Very lovely hands, indeed.”

Very lovely hands, with slim, long fingers that had wrapped so easily around my own.

“As far as compliments go, I think that’s the strangest one I’ve gotten. Even Nancy saying mytushlookedsquishablewas more normal.”

“I’d argue me liking your hands is far more appropriate than talking about your butt.”

“Yeah, I guess as far as things go, I’d rather you check out the former than the latter.” Sumner spread his palms before him, studying his fingertips. I could practically see the question on his face.Do I have nice hands?

I rose from the couch and walked around the coffee table, pausing just before him. “Admit it,” I mused, swirling the final drops of wine in my glass. “Following around a rich girl isn’t half as bad as you thought it’d be.”

Sumner didn’t look intimidated by my sudden proximity; in fact, an unfamiliar emotion bloomed in his eyes. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Why not? Is it not true?”

“No. It’s not.”

“I’m not rich? Or, when you said it, did you not mean rich? Did you mean to sayspoiled?” I took a theatrical look around my grand hotel room. A few lamps were on, giving a glimpse of its illustrious wallpaper and the sleekfixtures. “Is a penthouse suite not a sign someone is spoiled?”

“Placated. You’re being placated by it. Even I can see that.”

Placated.I felt my brow crease. His own expression was just so…compassionate, and in that moment, it irked me. I took a half step closer to grow more imposing, the toe of my slipper brushing his. “Will you stop?” I demanded, glaring down above him. “Stop looking at me with your ‘poor little bird’ eyes. Why do you look at me that way? I’m not someone to look down on.”

“I’m not looking down on you, Margot,” Sumner insisted. It was ironic, given the fact that he had to tilt his head back to meet my stare. “You live in a penthouse suite, yes, but you don’twantto. You said yourself, you’re lonely here.”

“So what?” My voice was flat. “I have everything I could ever want. Clothes, cars, a future paved in a golden path. Am I lonely here? Does it matter? Being alone is a choice,” I echoed Nancy’s words, “and I’ve chosen it. I’d much rather be alone than surrounded by a million people speaking a language I’ll never understand.”

Things were always a give and take with Sumner. When he was there, I enjoyed his company. It was when he stared a bit closer, when he attempted to peel back the layers I very much so enjoyed leaving sealed, that I was ready to throw him away like a child growing bored with a toy. I wanted him as a distraction, not as my therapist.

I tipped my glass back and drained the remainder of the wine, the punch of peach causing my throat to ache as I swallowed. “You can leavenow.”

Sumner caught my wrist before I could take a full step away from him. He sat up on the couch, but didn’t rise. “Margot.”

“I can think of myself as the most pitiful person in the world, but I refuse to allow anyone else to even consider it.” I looked down at him, pulse fluttering. “Especially not you, Mr. Pennington.”

As I wrenched my hand out of his grip, the open back of my slipper caught on the leg of the coffee table, and I tripped over it. Quite the opposite of the calm and collected image I’d tried to portray, I nearly tumbled back onto the coffee table itself, which would’ve caused the glass to shatter, but Sumner grabbed my wrist again and pulled me back forward. Too hard. My knee crashed against his as I tried to find my balance again, which sent me stumbling—oh-so gracefully—into Sumner’s lap.

All at once, everything stilled. One of my hands had curved over Sumner’s shoulder, steadying my fall. Sumner’s hand still gripped my wrist, the one that held my wine glass, and his other braced against my waist. The fabric of my nightgown bunched under his touch, exposing the bottom of my thigh as my knee dug into the couch on the other side of his hip.

The position was accidental, but undeniably intimate, our faces only inches apart.

My heart had fluttered before, but it completely stopped now.

Sumner didn’t breathe underneath me. His gaze didn’t stray from my eyes, either, locked on as if they were his lifeline. And his were so, so pretty. Up close, I once more got a full view of his deep brown lashes, of his trailof freckles underneath his right eye. I wanted to trace them with my fingertip. His irises were blue, but they looked so dark now, almost as if the pupil had bled into the color.

Almost imperceptibly, his hand squeezed my hip. “I don’t—” Sumner drew in a shaky breath. “I don’t find you pitiful.” His voice was a whisper.

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