The Balfour’s low jazz and golden candlelight set the perfect stage for a night that was bound to end in chaos, laughter, or possibly both.
Grace leaned back in the booth, the warmth of her wine sinking into her limbs as Jullian’s smirk hovered somewhere between arrogant and amused.
“So,” she mused, swirling her glass. “How many other exes should I be expecting tonight? Or was that just a limited-time performance?”
Jullian’s eyes gleamed as he took a sip of his whiskey. “Just the one, I hope, for tonight, unless you count that Russian businessman who still sends me cryptic texts.”
She snorted. “Please tell me you didn’t date a Russian oligarch.”
“No, but he did call me Milaya moya once, which I think translates to ‘my dear.’” Jullian sighed dramatically. “It’s a long story.”
Grace a
