I look up just in time to see Matthias giving me a strange look. Indecipherable. And then it’s gone before I can figure out what it means.
“Have a good night,” I say as they follow Clementine into the salon.
“Thank you, Clarissa,” he says, voice soft.
The rare moment of respite from his insults emboldens me. “Actually, I was talking to Leanne. I hope you choke on your cognac,” I say with the widest smile I can muster.
The response I get from him is a laugh that, inexplicably, warms right through me.
I ignore it and make a note to check the thermostat.
***
An hour later, the lights dim while the stage lights come to life. There’s a smattering of applause as the band makes it onto the stage and performs a quick sound check. I wait until they give me a quick nod, signaling me to walk onto the stage.
“Good evening, everyone, and welcome to Malt!” I greet my customers, trying not to squint under the stage light. “Tonight, once again, we have the absolute pleasure of welcoming one of Manhattan’s best talents, Georgana Best! We hope you enjoy the show.” This time the applause is thumping, deliberate, anticipatory. I can’t help feeling a thrill. I had taken a chance with Georgana, spending almost twice as much as I had intended for the opening night. But tonight is the third night she’ll perform since then, and each time she’s had to do two encores before the customers let her leave the stage.
Georgana steps onto the stage, bowing low to the audience before the band launches into their six song set.
I listen until the first chorus, just to make sure everything is running smoothly before turning toward my table. I should take a minute to make sure that Leanne and her plus one have everything they need.
I refuse to think of him as anything but that.
When my eyes land on my table in the far left corner, I notice someone watching me.
And even though the room is dark, lit only by a soft orange glow, I know the eyes are an unnerving hue of blue. Baxter Blue, I used to call it. The Baxter brothers might have gotten their business and tenacity from their grandfather, but their piercing, crystal blue eyes and almost bleached blond hair are their mother through and through. Even with Matthias, who might be the one who looks least like her, there is no doubt where his looks came from. Damien used to say that was the very reason
Matthias was even more neglected by their mother than the others. Whereas Damien, who most resembled her, was the “favorite” and the focus of his mother’s attention, both good and very, very bad, Matthias was the forgotten child when it came to her, and thus, probably the reason he’s more immune to her games than the others.
I meet his eyes, just for a second, then I look away. Or maybe he does first. I don’t know. I just know that someone has turned the heat up again, and I’m flushed.
It’s a rare moment shared between the two of us, where one of us isn’t insulting the other.
But it doesn’t last.
The next time I look over, he’s leaning into Leanne, his hand on her back, whispering something that makes her eyes twinkle, and she leans back, pressing her hand against his cheek.
Ugh.
Come on, Leanne, you’re better than that.
I bite back the acid burning the inside of my mouth and make my way over to them.
“Clarissa! Babe, I am stunned!” Leanne squeals when she sees me, and gets to her feet, pulling my hand to the empty seat next to hers. “The gold flecks in the paint shimmer even more than I thought they would. And you did such a good job with the light show.” She twirls her finger in the air toward the ceiling.
But I’m not looking at her.
He’s looking at me again, with that unreadable look on his face. Neutral, but with something flickering in his eyes.
“Matthias! Isn’t Clarissa’s club amazing?” Leanne continues squealing.
His lip lifts, not into a smirk as I’d expected, but just in a look of amusement. I can’t tell if it’s about me, or about Leanne’s excitement. It is infectious.
“Tell her!” Leanne yells at him, slapping a hand against his thigh in a way that’s too intimate for just friends.
“It’s okay,” I say, not wanting to admit that I’m actually wondering what he really thinks about my club. He’s in the top twenty richest men in New York City and the director of a Fortune 100 company. He’s been in the most luxurious, most exclusive, hardest to get into places in the world, and if I know a thing about Matthias, there isn’t a vice he hasn’t partaken in. My stomach suddenly sinks and I hope he’s not comparing Malt to the best places he’s been.
Stop it, who the fuck cares with this twat waffle thinks? I didn’t build this place for him! He’s just lucky to be here.
“Rissie,” he finally says. “You’ve done an amazing job with this place.”
The words pierce through the background noise of the band and chatter around us.
Did he actually sound sincere?
No.
I haven’t eaten all day, and on top of sharing a few drinks with some of the patrons, maybe my head just isn’t working right.
Or maybe it’s because Matthias has never, not once, not even in my dreams, ever complimented me.
And now is hardly the time to start.
I crook my finger at Clementine and point her to Matthias. She shuffles over, cigar box at the ready.
I reach in and pull one out, handing it to him. “You won’t find this anywhere else. Can you guess what it is?”
He looks at the cigar I put in his hands and then his face completely brightens. “La Tormenta by
Fermin? Where and how did you get this? He only makes a thousand of these a year!”