Always the Last to Know(78)

“Excellent! Which year?”

“Surprise us. It’s a special night.” I’d studied the champagne list after picking this place. The cheapest bottle of Cristal cost six hundred dollars, and the most expensive was well over a thousand.

“Babe,” Alexander said, “uh, that’s kind of expensive.”

“Oh! We can call him back, then, babe.” I raised my hand, knowing he would stop me. It would look like he couldn’t afford it, and he would hate that, especially here.

As predicted . . . “No, no, it’s fine. A special night, like you said. How are you, babe? How was your week?”

“So good, Alexander. So good.”

He smiled, not picking up on the venom in my voice. “Well, it’s great to see you. I hope you can stay a few nights. I’ll be in town for four days. We could have a lot of fun. The Guggenheim has a new show, and—”

I stopped listening.

He had made a pass at another woman. He wanted to sleep with her in the hotel where we’d had sex. That image of him kissing her on the neck . . . it was kind of a specialty of his.

I wished Gillian had kicked him in the nutsack.

When the waiter came back, I was ready. “I’m starving!” I announced cheerfully to both men. “It’s been a tough couple of weeks, Luciano, and I haven’t been in the city in ages, and I think I want a bite of everything! How about the sea urchin with pickled fennel, the Chinese caviar, maybe . . . hmm . . . the red prawn antipasto, and the garden salad, and oh! That lobster risotto sounds great! And for my main course, the sirloin, please. With the roasted potatoes, please. And heck, throw in those wild mushrooms, too.”

Luciano was in love with me now. “Excellent choices, signorina. For the signore?”

Alexander looked incredulous. “Are you sure you can eat all that, babe?”

“I’m super hungry, babe.” Sparkle sparkle. “Plus, you know how these Michelin-star places are. Every plate is basically two bites of food.”

Luciano chuckled warmly. “Signorina, you are correct. Just enough to whet the appetite for the next course, si?”

“Si,” I said, beaming.

“Signore? For you?”

“I’ll have the sea bass,” he said.

“Oh, come on!” I said. “You can’t let me sit here and eat all those courses and just have one! This is an Italian restaurant! To eat is to love, right, Luciano?”

“Si, signorina. The beautiful lady is correct, of course.”

I winked at him. Alexander had flaws, but being a shitty tipper was not among them, and Luciano would leave here with hundreds of dollars from our meal alone.

Alexander ordered a pasta course and the grilled octopus. I would also be ordering dessert. Possibly a dessert martini. Carter had already been notified about my romantic drama as I drove to the New Haven train station, and had ordered me to sleep over tonight, bless him.

I drank the cocktail, wincing a little at the taste but appreciating the warmth.

How could Alexander do this to me? Why? Wasn’t I the easiest, most laid-back girlfriend in the world? Had I ever complained about his travel schedule? Ever insisted he come to a school event or birthday party? Before my father’s stroke, he’d only visited Stoningham once. I was always cheerful and upbeat around him because I was those things, goddamnit.

Luciano brought our courses. I ate, laughed, murmured in the appropriate places. The food was amazing. At least there was that. Also, the champagne, my God. So good. I might even order a second bottle.

As I watched Alexander, I saw it. The performance. The need for validation. He was working hard to make sure we were The Couple To Be at this swanky, sophisticated restaurant. When I fake laughed, he’d glance around to make sure people saw that he had the power to bring humor. He smiled a lot, and where my dorky brother-in-law also smiled a lot, Oliver was . . . sincere. He loved my sister and his daughters. He adored my parents. He even loved me, not that I’d given him much reason to.

We ordered dessert (though I was going to go into a coma soon if I ate much more).

“Babe,” Alexander said now, “I know this has been a rough couple of months for you.”

“You, sir, are absolutely right.” I was tipsy and enjoying it. It was fueling my rage.

“So I wanted to give this to you, and hope it will make things a little happier.”

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a little velvet box.

Shit. If there was an engagement ring in there, I knew it would be big, and I’d want it, and I wouldn’t be able to have it, and everyone in here would feel bad for the poor guy who proposed and got shot down. Cringing internally, I waited for him to get down on one knee.

Thank God, no. He just passed it across the many plates and smiled.

“Aw. So sweet of you!” I opened it and, shit, it was a beautiful necklace. A chunky bezel-set diamond surrounded by pink gold with a matching chain. “I love it.” I did, damn it. I’d keep it, too. I could sell it and pay for something in my house. “Thank you. How much did it cost?”

“Oh, babe. Whatever it cost, you’re worth ten times that much.”

“So . . . what are we talking? A thousand dollars?”

He grinned. “More. Significantly more. Here, let me put it on you.”

Ass. I allowed it. He sat back down, smug and pleased (glancing around to see if everyone had noticed).