Oscar grabbed a dishrag and started to dry. “That he’s my north star, basically. That I admire everybody, but Mozart’s the one who nails what love sounds like.”

“Mozart.” The brazenness of that statement forced a laugh out of me. “Not, I don’t know . . . the Romantics?”

“Okay,” Oscar said, hopping up on the counter. “How about, Mozart nails what I want falling in love to feel like.” He let his legs swing out, back in. “If I could choose, I’d much rather have that purity, that peace, that grace to come home to than any drama, however gorgeous and sweeping and complex and . . . you get it.”

I peered up at him, elbow grazing his knee, feeling a lot of things, none of them pure. “Most people would disagree with you. Everybody seems to want to get destroyed.”

“My brain is messy enough.” He slid back down. “I need a Mozart kind of love.”

I felt him move behind me, warm and steady, his hands falling to rest on either side of me against the counter. I washed one more cup—his breath on the nape of my neck, his hips drawing closer to mine . . .

But he reached for my wrists, stilling them. “You don’t need to take care of people so much, Ruby. You can take a break.”

My hand closed around the drain plug, shoulders locked tight. “It’s the only thing—”

He peered around me, intent. “What?”

I pulled the plug and dried myself off. “I really don’t mind!”

He watched me cross the room. “I noticed you the other day, going into Marty’s study. Like, sneaking. And then when we went in to work, it was immaculate—”

“Dad can’t concentrate when it’s messy and he’s a naturally messy person, so . . . I don’t know.” I picked at my thumbnail, flustered. “I sort the mail, get his music in the right order. I vacuum. It’s not like I’m curing cancer.”

Good lord, if Jules heard me say that . . .

“You’re helpful,” Oscar said, stepping closer. “Kind.” Another step. “Beautiful.”

I smiled, speechless.

“So,” he said.

“So . . .”

He leaned against the wall. “There’s this Amberley thing I have to go to this weekend, while your dad’s away. This young donors’ cocktail reception something-something?”

“Wing Club?”

“Yes! You know about it?”

“Nora mentioned it to me.” Practically your birthright.

“Oh, of course.” His fingers nervously tapped the wall. “Well, are you going? Do you want to be my date? Sunday night. It would make it a lot more fun.”

There was an edge to his cheerfulness, like he was daring himself to say all this. Was this his way of getting past all the things he was worried about?

“I wasn’t actually planning to go,” I said. “But Wing Club is really nice. And you’re really nice to ask me.”