His dad’s eyes narrow at me. “I’m talking about James going into pediatric surgery. If he must bother himself with children, the least he could do is specialize in the family legacy.”

Jamie tenses beside me.

“Hawthorne’s a leader in the field,” Arthur continues. “It would be the chance of a lifetime to work with him.”

Dr. Hawthorne says to Jamie, “With your background, I’m sure you’d be a brilliant addition to our team. Of course, surgery isn’t everyone’s calling—”

“Nonsense,” Arthur says. He picks up a glass of champagne offered by a passing server, his gaze locked on Jamie. “It’s what Westenbergs do, isn’t that right, boys?”

One of the brothers who gave me a chilly once-over when I joined the circle—Henry, the older one—raises his cocktail. “Cheers to that.”

The younger one, Edward, clinks his glass with Henry’s and smiles, but it’s more like a sneer. “Damn right.”

Sam pointedly doesn’t join in. His gaze slides worriedly our way.

But Jamie’s expression doesn’t shift, calm and composed as ever, like what just happened is as ordinary as clouds in the sky and ground beneath his feet. It makes my heart hurt.

Clearing his throat, he directs himself to Dr. Hawthorne. “I deeply appreciate the offer, and I’m flattered you think I’d be qualified to work with you. I have the utmost admiration for what you do. But surgery isn’t my calling.”

Arthur’s jaw tics. His expression is thunderous.

“Darling.” Jamie’s mother glides in, hooking her arm through his. Tall and willowy, she’s like a silver-screen starlet, frozen in time. Dazzling in an ivory fashion-forward dress that would make me look like a misshapen meringue, not a pore in sight, skin glowing. Her glossy brown hair is a few shades lighter than mine, perfectly coiffed, not a single gray to be seen.

I glance around at the rest of the group making small talk, feeling my height difference around all these giants, my frizzy waves that Jules tamed for me into an artfully messy updo, the shine that’s no doubt made an appearance on my chin and forehead. I’d never try or hope to look flawless, and generally I like my appearance well enough, but right now I feel like maybe I stick out like a sore thumb. And I worry that maybe I’m embarrassing Jamie, that I’m bringing him down with my tats and my obviously not-posh background.

When I glance up at him, he’s peering down at me, the faintest smile tipping his mouth. He leans in and whispers, “You look magnificent.”

“Mind reader.”

He grins. “You wear it all on your face. I watched your entire train of thought— Ouch!”

I’ve elbowed him, and I’m not sorry. “Reminding me I make weird faces when I’m lost in thought is very ungentlemanly of you.”