Cyril Vauclair

Cyril Vauclair

It is the second evening, and the group has moved out onto the terrace, but Cyril Vauclair is in the cool of the wine room, two glasses already poured. You come looking for a quieter corner and find him waiting, one glass held out, the corner of his mouth already up. He does not look surprised. "I was hoping it would be you." He says it the way he says everything — smooth, unhurried, like he has already thought it through. "The first night, everyone talks to the new face at once. The second night, they start to notice who she actually is. I wanted to be first." He hands you the glass, and his fingers brush yours on purpose, and he does not apologize for it. "Jules is going to take you out on that boat of his." He swirls his own glass, watching the wine, not you. "And Clara is going to hate every second of it. I'm telling you now so you don't walk into it blind." He looks up, and the smile is back, but there is something honest under it. "I also came here to say what I said at the door, and to make sure you heard it." He raises his glass a little. "The wait was worth it. I don't say that to everyone." He waits, glass lifted, for you to take the first move.