Page 17 of Love Is A Draw
Half an hour later,Gail’s gown caught in the breeze as she stepped onto the wide gravel paths of Vauxhall Gardens, but she barely noticed the sunlight or the shimmer of scattered trees, too busy trying to still the drumbeat in her chest. The idea of the balloon ascension and clamor of the crowd didn’t bother her; itwas the quiet terror of what might happen if she failed. If she let Greg down. If she didn’t live up to what Victor had seen in her.
The crowd surged ahead, leaning over barriers, gasping as the balloons hissed and swelled. Children laughed, women adjusted their bonnets, and a gentleman lectured on aerostatics. The world had turned its eyes upward—but Gail couldn’t. She kept looking back. At everything she’d promised. At everything she stood to lose. She feared stepping into the light not only as a female but also as a Jewish chess player.
The restless energy around her, the liveliness, carried on the breeze. People strolled through the gardens in vibrant clusters, their voices mingling with the burbling fountain nearby and the occasional burst of laughter. An orange balloon stood tall in the distance, its painted fabric billowing faintly each time the wind swept past. Gail couldn’t help but enjoy the rush of excitement as another jet of fire hissed, swelling the balloon further. The crowd gasped as the rippling heat danced toward them, while her thoughts drifted from the sky—back to the man who never once looked away.
Her attention wandered toward the shadowed edge of the garden, where the grass stretched in quiet relief from the cheerful commotion. Under the serpentine limb of an old oak, a figure caught her eye. Someone was watching her. Victor.
She stopped as though her feet had been rooted to the earth itself. The wind tugged insistently at her skirts and bonnet, but she barely noticed. He sat there so casually, as if this magnificent day had been made entirely for his leisure. His broad shoulders curved slightly forward, and his head tilted as his long fingers hovered over the modest chessboard before him. The hem of his dark coat brushed the grass, and his boots crossed easily at the ankle. For the briefest second, she wondered whether her heart had forgotten how to beat, for she could barely feel it through the sharp rush of her breath. This was supposed to be her afternoon.
And there was nobody else she’d rather share it with.
A small breeze snatched the air between them, ruffling the edges of his hair. A strand fell against his forehead. He seemed oblivious to the commotion around the balloon or the distant chatter of the crowd—a man of quiet focus and composed intensity, lost in a game played against himself. He stole the center of the moment without lifting his eyes from her.
He seemed so at ease here, yet somehow, he didn’t seem immodest, and that, perhaps more than anything, unsettled her. Heat rose to her cheeks, not from the breeze but from something far more disconcerting. She stared at the ground, anchoring herself in the pale splash of sunlight on her shoes, before daring to lift her gaze again.
Victor was still watching her. She didn’t know when he’d seen her—only that his gaze was fixed, calm, and direct, like a move already decided before she’d taken her first step.
Her heart stuttered.
The crowd disappeared, the wind stilled, and for a moment, the gardens belonged only to them. His eyes didn’t waver. They didn’t dart or shy or pretend surprise. They held her in place with a quiet force that seemed both impossible and inevitable.
She faltered. She hadn’t meant to stop, not yet. But her feet disobeyed, rooted by the sheer stillness in his face as if he’d been waiting for her. As if she were the only move that mattered now.
And then—he smiled. Not broadly. Not even fully. But the corner of his mouth curved, warm and unmistakably bright, and Gail felt something sharp and giddy break loose in her chest. Her breath caught, her pulse slipping its rhythm entirely.
They stood only a few feet apart, close enough that she could catch the faint scent of travel on him, close enough that no word would be lost.
She dropped a curtsey, far clumsier than intended. “Victor,” she managed to say, thinner than it should have been.
The sound of her name when he said it—low, certain, laced with a softness she hadn’t expected—nearly undid her.
It was just a moment. A glance. A smile. An opening move to something she wasn’t ready for—and already couldn’t stop.
Victor mutteredsomething sharp under his breath, the word swallowed by the rustle of Vauxhall Gardens. He shifted on the grass, back aching from the uneven ground, eyes narrowed at the board before him. He hadn’t meant to end up here—surrounded by cotton-candy ribbons, shrieking children, and the idiotic thunder of a balloon preparing to climb into the sky. He needed quiet. A clean board. Control. Instead, he had chaos. Noise. And those gigantic balloons looming overhead.
He rubbed his brow, willing the sun out of his eyes. What had he been thinking coming here? Believing he might sort through his thoughts in public like a man without enemies?
He had to focus. Perhaps these terrible conditions could help him hone that skill. Fine!
Ignore the noise.
Forget the crowds.
List would laugh at him if he got distracted—and use it against him.
Victor reached for a pawn, fingers curled tight around the base. No strategy came. No calm descended. He stared at the pieces as though they’d turned traitor along with List.
Then—a shift. A prickle against his spine. He lifted his gaze.
And saw her.
Gail.
She was standing just beyond the fringe of the crowd, her skirts catching in the breeze. Her bonnet dipped low, but notenough to hide the line of her mouth, the flush on her cheek, the unbearable stillness in her posture.
She hadn’t seen him.
His breath caught, sharp and involuntary. She seemed like a dream someone else should’ve had. One he didn’t deserve. The pawn dropped silently back into place.
