All this with her family, on top of losing him. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

“My aunt Celeste believes there’s a Pavlin curse—that we’re doomed in love.”

“Oh, come on. You don’t believe that, do you? We make our own luck . . . out of our choices,” he said pointedly.

“Well, clearly the women in my family make bad choices.” She tried not to think of Connor. Or the way she kissed Noam at the party.

“I’m not going to argue with that.” His eyes locked onto hers and her chest constricted.

“I love you, Sanjay,” she breathed.

He leaned forward so slowly it was like she was imagining it. And then his lips brushed against hers. She reached out to hold his face, feeling the hint of stubble along his jaw. She kissed him harder, and he reached up, winding his hand through her hair. She inched off the chair, sliding down so they were both on the floor, chest to chest, holding each other tight.

“I can’t,” he said pulling back.

“Why?” she said, catching her breath. She knew why: Monica.

For a moment, neither of them said anything,

“Gemma, if you don’t know what to do next, go back to Provincetown. Keep working on your business. Live cheaply at your aunt’s. Finish what you started.”

She blinked, holding back the words: That’s what I was just trying to do.

64

Elodie’s driver deposited her back in Provincetown a few hours after sunset. She needed to tell Celeste the truth about the Electric Rose—and the argument with their niece—before Gemma got to her. But by the time she reached the house, Celeste and Jack were already asleep.

The small bedroom seemed even smaller with all her emotional baggage. Oh, that encounter with Gemma was regrettable. She’d completely gone off the rails. What had she been thinking to lash out like that? And lying about the ring—she should have just told them both the truth at the beginning. She was too focused on getting Celeste to sign the auction paperwork, not anticipating how the lie could come back and hurt her later.

Restless, she slipped down the back stairs and headed for Commercial. Even at this late hour couples and families with young children strolled up and down the street. A lone saxophone played somewhere nearby, and a drag queen stood in the entrance to one of the bars beckoning people to a late-night show. And then, a familiar face: Tito walked out of the piano bar Tin Pan Alley.

“You’re back!” he said. “Why didn’t you text me?”

“Oh, I really just got here,” she said.

“I missed you,” he said, reaching forward to hug her. She leaned into him without enthusiasm.

“Just not enough to come with me to New York,” she said.