Page 31 of The Honest Affair

“Good. You deserve a night off from the misery that woman brings you.”

I looked down. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

But before Frankie could answer, we were interrupted.

“Francesca?”

At the sound of her full Italian name (she was Frankie, Fran, or Frances pretty much everywhere but at our grandmother’s house) spoken in a suspiciously deep, clearly British voice, my sister froze. We both turned to find the tallest man in the room, who must have been close to six-five, weaving his way through the crowd with a shocked, yet determined expression. I couldn’t deny it: the guy, whoever he was, had a presence. He had that black-haired, blue-eyed look that, judging by the number of women (and a few men) whose heads swiveled as he passed, seemed to be pretty damn pleasing to the eye. If you liked that sort of thing.

“Do you know him?” I asked Frankie.

“Go,” she ordered through clenched teeth. “You should go.”

I did no such thing.

“He looks familiar.” I tipped my head, trying to figure out where I had seen him before. A magazine, maybe? Was he one of those people in Page Six, someone I’d seen on local tabloids? Half of the city had hard-ons for these rich assholes.

Then he smiled at Frankie, and I knew exactly where I’d seen that face before. Or at least another version of it. It wasn’t in the paper. It was at my kitchen counter, eating breakfast cereal. Tossing a baseball. Talking about Doc McStuffins. I saw that face every day in my own damn house.

“Frankie, is that Sofia’s—”

“Hush!” Her hand pressed into my chest, shoving me a full step away from her.

I frowned as the man approached. He was staring at Frankie with the kind of awe I felt whenever I saw Nina. But it didn’t make sense. Was this the guy who had abandoned her and Sofia? The deadbeat, possibly married man who shirked his daughter and left my sister crying?

If that were true, then why did he look so damn excited to see her?

“Frankie,” I started again, but I was cut off by the exact same look Nonna used to give me whenever I came home with stains on my white shirts.

Message received, loud and clear.

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, brushing out any creases she might have left on my lapels. “But you’re answering that question later, little sister.”

“Get lost!” she hissed.

“Going. But my two cents? He’s too tall for you anyway.”

“Francesca?” I could hear him ask as I walked away. “Is it really you?”

“Hello, Xavier.”

Yeah, she was definitely going to have some explaining to do on our way back to Brooklyn.

Deciding to make my way to where I’d last seen Jane, I started pushing through the crowd, ignoring the bored, curious looks, especially from some of the women. Yeah, yeah, ladies. I know you like. It didn’t matter. I was only here to see one of them, and she was nowhere to be found. I’d say hello to the hosts and get the hell out of here, back to where I actually belonged.

A cascade of shoves ended with me bumping into a woman on my left, who dropped something as she turned around.

“Beg your pardon, miss. Let me get that.”

I crouched to the floor and retrieved the small leather purse, but then froze when confronted with shiny black heels, delicate ankles, and a pair of intensely long legs.

Slowly, I looked up, noting the slight curves of her calves, then the knee-length dress. It was demure at first, solid black broken by a white lace panel that traveled from the hem all the way up her body. And as my gaze traveled too, it became very clear that there was absolutely nothing under that lace but miles and miles of butter-soft skin. And I was intimately familiar with all of it.

Even so, I nearly fell over when I found those bright gray, almost silver eyes looking down at me, full of imperious, almost haughty irritation.

“Nina,” I murmured.

“Hello, Matthew,” she said. “Are you coming back up, or are you going to stay down there all night?”

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