I'm being complimentary. You're being a catastrophe in heels. Those are not mutually exclusive. Clare grinned at Malcolm. You're going to like it here.
We're a good time mostly. She leaned slightly closer. Stay away from Uncle Gerald. He will talk to you about tax law for 40 minutes and the only way out is a fake phone call. Noted, Malcolm said.
And then the temperature in the room changed. Not loudly, not with any announcement. But Malcolm felt it. The subtle recalibration of a space when someone enters it with the specific energy of a person who is accustomed to being noticed. He didn't have to look to know, but he looked.
Trent Whitmore was exactly what Malcolm had expected, which meant he was more dangerous than he appeared. 34. Clean-cut, the kind of handsome that photographs well and wears well in rooms like this one. He was laughing at something someone beside him had said. An easy laugh performed naturally the laugh of a man who had spent years ensuring he was the most comfortable person in any room he entered.
He hadn't seen them yet. Malcolm turned back to Clare and said something unremarkable about the room. And Clare responded and the conversation continued. And beside him, he felt Vanessa's hand find his, not his arm. This time his hand fingers interlacing with his with a grip that was controlled and deliberate and also unmistakably the grip of someone steadying themselves.
He didn't look at her. He just held on. And then Trent saw them. Malcolm felt the exact moment it happened. The way you feel a shift in wind direction before the temperature drops.
He didn't react, didn't turn, kept his attention on Clare, who was now describing her maid of honor speech with the animated energy of someone who had been workshopping it for months. Trent made his way across the room. Of course, he did. He was the kind of man who advanced always toward the thing he was supposed to no longer care about, Vanessa. His voice was warm.
Practiced the warmth of a man who had decided in advance to be gracious. Vanessa turned. Malcolm turned with her still holding her hand. Trent, she said. Her voice was a flatline in the most impressive way.
I didn't realize you'd be here already. Flew in Thursday. He smiled. The smile went to Vanessa first, then moved. And here it shifted, recalibrated, sharpened almost imperceptibly to Malcolm.
"And this must be Malcolm Brooks," Malcolm said, extending his free hand with a steady ease. "Good to meet you," Trent shook it. His grip was the kind that men use as a sentence. Malcolm returned it with a grip that was simply a handshake. "The fiance," Trent said, smooth as glass.