Page 117 of Boiling Point
“Vegas?” she repeated, lifting an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“I’ve never been. But I’ve heard it’s quite something.”
“I’ve never been either,” she admitted. Then, with a smile that bloomed like a secret, “But yeah. That sounds perfect. If you’re sure it’s what you want.”
“I wantyou,” I said. “With as little interference from the rest of the world as possible.” I tightened my grip on her waist, greedy in claiming her. “I want to wake up and drink coffee with you. I want to watch you make a complete mockery of British tea. And I want a life where the only approval that matters is yours.”
Gabrielle didn’t speak. She just looked at me with a softness that unspooled the tightness in my chest.
My gaze drifted past her shoulder, across the green swell of the lawn, to Isabel. She was dancing—bright and effervescent—with her new husband, her laughter trailing through the air like perfume. From a distance, no one would have guessed at the nerves she’d carried this morning—the panic over missing boutonnieres, the way she’d frozen in the kitchen and nearly called the whole thing off. You’d only see the hostess in her element, radiant and composed, a woman born to outlast every cliché the world had ever thrown at her.
She caught my eye. And just like that, she was weaving through the crowd toward us.
Isabel descended in a flare of silk and champagne, eyes bright as she looped Gabrielle into an embrace. “You two look far too conspiratorial for your own good,” she said, voice pitched for our ears alone. Still the picture of grace, I caught the slight slurring of her words and alcohol-induced haze in her eyes. She let Gabrielle go but kept her hand, pressing it in both of hers. “What are we plotting?”
Gabrielle’s smile was tentative but real. “Congratulations, Isabel. It’s all…breathtaking, honestly. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Isabel’s mouth curled around satisfaction. “Aren’t you a darling?” She lifted her glass, eyeing Gabrielle over the rim.“With a little luck, it’ll be you next. Save yourself the headache and elope.”
Gabrielle blushed—not faint or bashful, but a surge of color that climbed her throat and set her ears aflame.
Isabel was too tipsy to notice. “So, what are your plans for the rest of your visit?”
I fielded the question for both of us. “We’ll take a few days in London next week—show Gabrielle the city, play tourist. She’s never seen it, apart from Heathrow.”
Isabel lit up. “Good, you’ll love it. London’s lovely this time of year.” She gave Gabrielle’s hand one last squeeze, then turned to me. “Cal, you must take her to Dennis Severs’ House—the old Georgian one in Spitalfields. It’s deliciously strange. Just the right kind of theatrical. She’ll adore it.”
She tipped back the rest of her champagne. “Today’s it for me. We’re leaving on honeymoon first thing tomorrow, and we’ll be gone for weeks.” Her gaze flicked to Gabrielle, then, a beat slower, to me. “You two will have vanished across the Atlantic before I’m back.” She jabbed a finger at my lapel. “You at least owe me a dance if you’re going to abandon me again.”
I cast a sidelong glance at Gabrielle. She nodded, wordlessly surrendering me to my sister’s grasp. Isabel seized my hand and, with a fluidity that belied the champagne, swept us into the slipstream of the other dancers. We settled into step, her palm light on my shoulder. The band—a local orchestra plus a jazz pianist of some renown—played something old and clever, slipping over the crowd like a well-tailored coat.
In heels, Isabel nearly matched my height. She led, or thought she did anyway. For once, I didn’t mind letting her.
“You’ve done well, Cal.”
“Thank you for that.”
“I’m serious. She’s clever, charming, and somehow manages to put up with your bullshit.” Isabel laughed—not her societylaugh, but the unguarded one I remembered from childhood. “If I weren’t so fond of you, I’d say she’s far too good for you. But you deserve the best, darling.”
She balanced her words on that knife-edge between fondness and fragility. For all her polish, Isabel was not invulnerable. A shadow flickered in her as we passed the white marquee, the custard tarts, and the lawn’s serried ranks of children—sticky and wild, playing rounders in their formalwear. Today was her triumph. And her reward? A brother still half in exile, a mother who’d never mastered the maternal, a father unlikely to see another Christmas, and another brother already taking measurements for the drapes. Perhaps Father was right—Isabel had more sense than the rest of us put together.
“She’s happy, Cal.” Isabel pressed my hand, her gaze landing briefly on Gabrielle, who stood beside a rose trellis, fingers curled nervously around a fresh glass of Pimm’s. “I can always tell. Don’t you dare ruin it.”
I matched the pressure in her palm. “I wasn’t planning to.”
“See that you don’t.” Isabel exhaled the softest sigh. Around us, the music swelled to a close. Couples peeled away in laughter or retreated to the drinks tent. “Take care of her. And yourself. And don’t be a stranger. I don’t care what James says. You’re always welcomechez-moi.”
I opened my mouth to reply—something sardonic, something easy, the old script we’d perfected—but the words fell short. “Thank you,” I managed, drawing her into an embrace. I kissed her cheek.
She swatted my sleeve. “Off with you now.”
Chapter 42
Gabrielle
“Shit.”
I looked up from my book, still jet-lagged and foggy. Cal was staring at his phone, brows cinched. “What is it?”
