Four days since he’d led Anton out into the night while sending a surreptitious text for her to call him, and how many words had she bestowed on him? Six. Two monosyllabic texts. And if he knew one thing about Gillian Linette Bellamy, it was her fondness for what her father referred to as her ten-dollar words.
So, yeah. He got the message. He didn’t know why she’d sent it, but he got it.
He was tempted to ask Ton, but … it felt wrong. Felt like cheating. Or tattling. Either way, like regressing. Being fourteen instead of twenty-eight.
He hired Jorge to assist with Natalie and Evan’s rehearsal dinner, too, instead of just their wedding. Not that he strictly needed it, but he wanted the extra cover in case he needed to corner Gill during the party. Or to at least keep him on task if she continued to freeze him out. Cause try as she might to make him feel like an awkward teen, he was a fucking professional.
Despite the monologue rant in his head. He proved it by capturing great images of the engaged couple and their moms. Of the groom’s many in-laws laughing like they’d been in on a successful conspiracy. Of Gillian, surrounded by her friends, not even pretending to be unaware of him capturing the love between them all.
Fucking invisible, that was him. Not a blip on anyone’s radar, so in a week or two when Natalie and Evan would go through these shots, they’d be amazed his lens saw so much when no one saw him.
No one ever saw him. It was the job. And he didn’t need Gillian to even blink his way for him to do his job. She had no problem forgetting his existence? So be it. More proof he was worth what he charged.
Jorge came up behind him and rubbed his shoulders. Cupped his scalp to swivel and waggle the tension out of his head and neck. “Go grab a break, man. Your ergonomics are for shit.”
Great. Fantastic. Stupendous, to use a Gillian word.
He made his way to the little table by the kitchen door he’d claimed for his equipment and cases. Made room for a bowl of the kosher gumbo and basket of cornbread. No crayfish for him. Hard enough to avoid the shells and spices just navigating the room full of people shucking and sucking. And who’d have figured image-conscious and elegant Natalie and Evan would host a boil for their rehearsal? From what he gathered about the venue and vendors for the next day’s reception, this was an uncharacteristically messy last hurrah before things got fancy and formal.
Speaking of formal, Gill approached him with the least casual air imaginable. Like they hadn’t spent innumerable days slouched on the same sofa watching movies. Like they hadn’t banded together dozens of times to talk Ton down after his folks made some cutting remark.
Like they hadn’t been minutes from fucking within recent memory.
“Vic?”
He just looked at her. Waiting for anything beyond single syllables from her.
She helped herself to a chair and a slice of cornbread. “Hey, sorry I haven’t called.”
He raised his brows. “Are you?”
“I didn’t mean to leave you hanging.”
“Huh.”
She crammed half the bread into her mouth. He spooned up some gumbo.
By the time she swallowed, she’d gone full glower. “You don’t think it’s a tad insipid, to go all pouty child on me like this? You can’t deign to make an effort at mature conversation?”
Damn her for making him laugh. “It’s lovely to see you again, Gillian. Are you enjoying the party? Have you been well? Have you been thinking about how many orgasms you missed out on since last we met?”
She crumbled the last of her bread into his bowl and took his spoon. “Hilarious. You’re so full of nuanced wit. It’s a shame you stick with a non-verbal art form.”
He found himself reaching for his camera before he’d thought about it. A protective instinct born of years of amateur and professional photography.
And he wasn’t going to define whether he was protecting his equipment, or himself.
“What do you want, Gill?” Besides his gumbo, which she polished off. He slid his glass of iced tea her way.
“Thanks.”
He grunted.
“I wanted to say hi. It felt too awkward to be in the same room for an hour and not talk.”
“That wasn’t my choice. And if you didn’t know that, let me make it clear. I’ve been making moves on you all this year because I want you. A relationship with you. Dating, being a couple, sleeping together. Acknowledging each other’s existence when we’re in the same room. All of that.”
She returned to glowering. “Well, forgive me for not allowing you to make unilateral decisions about my life.”
“Did I say it was a done deal? Did I walk in here wearing my ‘Vic and Gill 4Ever’ sequined t-shirt? I’m not making decisions for you, Gill. I’m telling you plain and clear what I want, and—like always, like forever—putting the ball in your court.”
Here she goes and makes an effort. Makes a point of reaching out. Extends a bushel full of olive branches. And he snides about her court? Nope. No. She wasn’t the one who drove off with Anton and never came knocking again.
“How am I calling shots when you’re the one running out the door the second my brother calls?”
He took back his drink. “We both ran out that door. Don’t lay things at my feet when you trod the same path.”
“You drove off into the night.”
“Which you were about to do instead before I stopped you.” He looked past her. Stood. “I’m on the clock, Gillian. If you want to talk this out—and to be clear, that’s what I want, so don’t play like you don’t know that—catch me when the party’s over.”
And then she was just sitting in a corner, alone, with a bunch of crumbs.
Ridiculous. Asinine. What about the fact she was a bridesmaid? She had to go over details with Natalie. They all had to meet early the next day for the whole beauty routine thing. She hadn’t even had time to break in the heels dyed the same lilac or lavender or whatever shade it was that Nat was calling their dresses.
Or the inclination, anyway. She’d had plenty of time. But she wasn’t going to wear the heels on campus, and she didn’t like wearing shoes in her house, and they didn’t go with the jeans and leggings she opted to wear when out running errands.
So screw Vic Anthony and his ‘catch me later’ attitude. His ‘we should be in a relationship’ dictates. His ‘the mature thing to do is have a conversation’ subtext.
She had shoes to break in.