by Pratt, Lulu
She stood up, picking the rewrapped piece off the table with tenderness.
“Where are you going?”
“Back to work,” she said. “Duh.”
“But—”
“Really, I’ve gotta go. But thanks again.”
She put a friendly hand on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze before departing the cafeteria.
I called after her, “I’ll see you soon!”
She didn’t even turn around. Had she not heard me?
I flopped back in my chair, running a hand through my hair. I’d just given her a million-dollar painting, and Chloe didn’t give a damn.
What’s a man to do?
CHAPTER 20
Chloe
MY HEART WAS in my throat as I raced out of the café and into the streets of New York.
I needed to get the painting back to my place as soon as possible, I reasoned. Surely Mx. Tok would understand if I took off an hour of work to store a piece of beautiful art.
Come on, my mind scolded me. That’s not why you ran off.
Flagging down a taxi, I willed my thoughts to shut the fuck up. Naturally, they didn’t abide this request.
Three yellow cabs veered to my curb at once — I never had trouble getting a taxi — and I climbed into the first one to stop, giving him directions to my apartment. I’d dragged clothing racks, bed frames and more onto the subway, but I figured this was one special occasion where I could shell out for a taxi.
But unfortunately, the quiet of the cab gave me too much time to think, and once I began to think, I couldn’t seem to stop.
Of course I hadn’t bolted from the gallery just in the name of art. Heaven knows the piece would’ve been safe for a few hours at one of the most prestigious art houses in the world. Thinking about it, that is where the picture probably deserved to be, not in my little apartment where no one would see it except me. No, I’d run off because of Xavier.
I’d vowed to keep it platonic with him. But here he was, giving me million-dollar paintings, telling me I deserved to have everything I wanted and more, and generally being hot as hell. I mean, come on. I’m only human. If the way to a normal woman’s heart was through wine and chocolates, my heart and legs opened for art. Xavier knew exactly what I wanted. I felt horrible I’d been so rude to him, but it was either that or simply cave to our mutual desire. No, sadly, a crisp tone had been the only way to go. We all know what happens when I get too friendly.
Unable to help myself, I thought back to our last bout of riotous sex in the gallery. The way he’d thrown me onto the bench with abandon, knowing exactly what I wanted without needing me to put it into words. He intuited my body like it was a country he’d traipsed through many times before — and I suppose he had. But how, after all these years and presumably all those women, did he still have such a categorical memory for how to get me off?
Argh! All I wanted to do was scream. With frustration or with pleasure, I’m not sure. The only thing I knew for certain was that my blood was boiling, and sooner or later, this whole ‘platonic’ charade would collapse, one way or another.
Just as I was thinking about ordering the taxi to turn back around so that I could run directly into Xavier’s arms, my phone rang.
Phew. That was probably for the best.
I snapped it open at once. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Alexandra. I saw your voicemail.” She paused as I wracked my brain. “From last night.”
Oh shit. I’d forgotten that I called her last night after the pregnancy test had come back positive. I must’ve been so flustered that panic drowned out the memory.
“Hey girl,” I returned, still trying to get my bearings.
There was a long space, then she prodded, “So? What’s up?”
“Yeah… about that…” I struggled, trying to find the words.
“You can tell me anything. You know that, right?”
“Of course. It’s just… hard to tell.”
A sharp note of worry emerged in Alexandra’s voice. “You don’t usually sound like this, Chloe. I’m starting to get concerned. Can I meet you somewhere, do you need a doctor? Please, just tell me what’s going on so I can help you.”
Alexandra’s loyalty to me and her friends was legendary. She was always there, always cheering for you.
It was now or never. If I didn’t bite the bullet, I knew I’d avoid the problem for the next nine months.
“Alexandra, I’m pregnant.”
“What?!”
Okay, she definitely hadn’t seen that twist coming. “And it’s Xavier’s baby.”
There was a loud clattering on the end of the line, then Alexandra’s voice returned, breathless. “Sorry, I literally just dropped the phone because of like, shock. Are you serious?”
“Are you mad at me?” I whispered.
“Mad? Why would I be mad?”
“I don’t know,” I returned, unsure myself what I’d been thinking. “Like maybe I was stealing your pregnancy thunder, or you’d be upset that I’d slept with Xavier, even though I knew better.”
“Chloe, babe, how could I possibly be upset? Now we get to be pregnant together. That’s totally incredible.”
I smiled. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. We’ll be baby buddies.”
“Baby buddies!”
We giggled, and the laughter seemed to defray at least some of my nerves.
“But Chloe — and I’m not mad, I just want to talk about it — why’d you sleep with Xavier?” Alexandra questioned, careful with her words. “Seriously, I’m not trying to guilt you, I just want to understand.”
“I know,” I took a deep breath, trying to make my thoughts congeal into something affable and digestible. “I think… it’s just… there’s something so strong between him and me. There has been since the moment we met in college. And I thought — or maybe, hoped — that it would diminish over the years, with time and distance, but the minute I saw him again, I knew that it burned as bright as ever.”
I swallowed and thought for a moment what the cab driver might be thinking of me if he’d overheard the conversation.
“And Xavier told me about his fiancée, and I hoped that would be enough to squelch any attraction I felt for him, and for real this time. But I guess the heart wants what the heart wants. Is that a total cop-out?”
I heard Alexandra breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth, the way she always did when she was thinking hard on something.
“No,” she said finally. “It’s not. I’m happy, thrilled even, that you feel that way about someone. Sure, it’s complicated, but love doesn’t come easy.”
“Love?”
“That’s what you’re describing, right?”
I quickly rebuked the thought. “No, no, it’s just lust. Animal attraction.”
Alexandra laughed. “Whatever you say.” Her voice crackled through the speaker. “So, what are you gonna do about the fiancée?”
“What do you mean?”
“About breaking things off with her and Xavier.”
“Whoa, hold on. There’s no way I’m gonna do that.” What was she talking about?
“Okay, I don’t want to tell you how to live your life,” Alexandra said, “but you slept with her fiancé—”
“Intended fiancé,” I corrected, as though it mattered.
“Sure, whatever. And you’re pregnant with his baby. Do you really think that wedding bells are in order?”
I shook my head, unwilling to hear this argument. “None of that means they have to call it off. Their families, their business, is on the line. I’ve already been selfish enough, sleeping with Xavier and keeping the baby. I have to let them go through with the marriage.”
“Is that what you really want?”
Did it matter? “Yes, that’s what I want.”
“Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” I declared, hoping that the more I said the words, the truer they’d become. “Playing the ‘mother of your baby�
�� card isn’t the way I want to win a man. And neither is any form of sabotage.”
“Has it occurred to you that maybe he wants to be with you as much as you want to be with him?”
I glanced down at the million-dollar painting in my lap. Yes, I thought.
But aloud, I replied, “He just made a mistake. We both did.”
“All right,” Alexandra returned. “Then it’ll just be like this. Xavier will marry the intended fiancée, and you and I will be baby buddies. It’s unconventional, yeah, but when the hell have you ever been conventional?”
I laughed, more from relief than anything else. “Very true. I love you, Ali-bali-bee,” I said, using her nickname.
“Love you too, Coco. Promise you’ll keep me updated on everything?”
“Obviously.”
“And I’m coming with you to your first doctor’s visit,” she announced, her tone broaching no argument.
Shit, right. I’d have to start doing doctors’ visits, and prenatal vitamins and cutting out coffee. Was I really ready for this whole pregnancy thing? I’d made up my mind so fast to keep this child, but being pregnant — let alone being a mother — was a challenge of epic proportions.
As if reading my thoughts, Alexandra continued, “And don’t worry about doing pregnancy perfectly. All those mommy bloggers are just around to make the rest of us feel bad. I know it’s daunting at first, but you’re gonna be a great mom. Just do the best you can for your baby, and that’ll be enough.”
“Thanks, sweetie. I gotta go, but I’ll talk to you soon.”
We said our goodbyes and I hung up, tucking the phone back in my pocket.
Xavier, baby, me. An imperfect collection, strung together by genetic filament and burning love and no real titles or government recognition.
But imperfect was my style. I was going to make this wild, crazy adventure work, one way or another.
I stared out the window, to the New York skyline, and smiled.
CHAPTER 21
Xavier
AROUND ME swirled a maelstrom of tuxes and tulle, shining satin and glittering diamonds. The chandeliers above had been filled with thousands of candles for the occasion, and warm light glanced off every surface. It smelled of Champagne, caviar and money — new and old.
It was opening night at the opera, a premiere of a new Philip Glass work that promised to riff on Puccini while still creating something entirely unique and groundbreaking. My family was a top donor to the opera and had been for decades. Thus, we’d secured ourselves one of the most prized box seats in the house.
Opening night was one of the few occasions when all of New York’s most fabulous gathered in a single place to gawk at one another. And though the people using the urinals next to me, or asking me politely to pass them a napkin, were the movers and shakers of the world, I was bored.
I wish Chloe were here, I thought sullenly. A loose image of her in a ball gown wafted into my mind. I could see her sallying in dressed in a simple black gown, none of the distracting frills the other women wore. No, Chloe didn’t need all that fuss. A black gown and a big diamond would do the trick. She’d turn every head in the room, men and women alike. The opera would go on, yes, but she’d be the real star.
And afterwards, I would take her back to my apartment and make her sing a different kind of song…
“How ya doin’, kiddo?”
A hand slapped me on the back — it was Adam, fitted in a fresh new tux and looking regal as ever.
While my father had that kind of perma-youth spirit about him, Adam had aged quickly, but with grace. Looking back on old pictures of the pair, Adam had appeared to be a stately sixty when he was barely past his teens. He called it the Michael Caine effect. In any case, he fit in well at the opera house.
Adam pulled me into a one-handed hug, his other hand busy balancing a snifter of Scotch.
“It’s been too long,” he said, squeezing me tight.
“Absolutely.”
Adam was, for all intents and purposes, my uncle, a family member who as a child I saw on every holiday and many weekends.
“Shall we take our seats? I know your father’s already in the box.” Adam rolled his eyes with practiced indulgence. “He always has to be early to everything, even the opera, where it’s fashionable to be late.”
“He has no sense of style,” I agreed with a laugh.
“Come on, let’s walk.”
I snatched some Champagne off a nearby waiter’s tray, nodded a thank you and joined Adam in the stroll to our box.
“I’m relieved you’re here,” I admitted as we walked, passing by billionaire bankers and pop stars alike. “Dad is so strict about not talking during the show, even when it’s a wash.”
Adam bayed at that. “Yes, he seems to think that live theater is all about passive experience. We’ve disagreed on it for half a century, and I imagine have both read our fair share of philosophers simply to return to the debate over a Sunday brunch.”
They were like that, it’s true — almost an old married couple, but who sparred over intellect and Aristotle rather than daily chores. They were both stubborn old mules who’d do anything to prove their point.
I hope Chloe gets to meet them someday, I thought absently as I sipped my Champagne, before realizing what had just crossed my mind and almost spitting the liquid back into its long-stemmed flute.
“Everything okay, Xavier?” Adam asked. “You look a little green around the gills.”
“Yes,” I replied, rather indecorously wiping my mouth off with the sleeve of my tux. “It’s just been a long day.”
Adam didn’t appear to buy this excuse, so I elaborated feebly, “Working with Comino has been tricky. Lots of preparations to be done before the big day.”
“Funny you should mention it — that’s exactly what your father and I wished to discuss. Preparations, that is.”
I was about to inquire further as to what Adam meant, but we’d arrived at the ornately carved oak door that guarded our plush box.
Adam swung it open and gestured inside. “After you, son.”
“Thanks.” I strode into the box, hands fidgeting in my pockets as I wondered what Adam had been going on about.
“Oh good, you’re here,” my dad said as I plopped down next to him in the red velvet seat. “Took you long enough.”
“Dad, we still have fifteen minutes before the show starts.”
Joining us in the box, Adam imitated my father’s voice. “Better late than never.”
Adam and I chuckled at his apt mimicry while my father huffed, “All right, you two, lay off.”
Adam winked conspiratorially in my direction, just as he had over so many Thanksgiving tables.
“Have I ever been late to a meeting my life?” Adam asked my dad.
“No, but—”
“Okay, gentlemen, enough bickering,” I said, interrupting what I knew could be a genial half hour spat over the point of punctuality.
“Your son’s right,” Adam agreed, raising an eyebrow. “I believe we have some business to attend to?”
“Yes, yes,” my dad joined in. “Xavier, tell us about the gala preparations. How are things going?”
“We’re on track to accomplish everything we need to,” I replied breezily. “The brass tacks are a little dull. You don’t really want to hear about them.”
“How’s the guest list look?”
“Prestigious.”
“Good, good,” my father replied.
Adam asked, “And the catering?”
“Delicious.”
They both paused, appearing to think, and then my father needled in, “And the, ah, other arrangements?”
I knew without additional explanation that he meant the engagement. He wasn’t a very subtle man, my dad.
“The other plans are… in the works.”
My dad coughed a little as Adam turned decorously to the side, always a bit more restrained than my father.
“Okay, as long as you sort
it,” my dad murmured, then added in a louder voice, suitable for company, “members of the board will be there.”
“I figured.”
“And Elizabeth,” Dad continued, referencing Adam’s wife. Was this his little reminder not to let down the intended mother-of-the-bride?
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Dad, I know. She’s at every gala.”
“I’m just saying—”
“I know what you’re saying,” I hissed.
My dad squinted at me. “Don’t talk back.”
My father wasn’t very traditional, but there was a line he drew in the sand when it came to mouthing off to him. I’d tested it a great deal as a child, but growing older, I realized it wasn’t worth it. After all, he was a hardworking man, worthy of respect. If I was honest, that was part of the reason I was marrying Rebecca — it was what my dad had planned, and I valued his opinion. Sometimes, as he would say, we must put honor before desire.
Adam jumped back in the conversation, tilting forward in his chair:
“And you’ll both be announced as the heirs of the company.”
“Really?” Now that surprised me. “So soon?”
“Is there a better time than the present? It’s perfect. Your father and I are getting old. And besides, with the other excitement of the evening—” Adam said, dipping his head meaningfully, “—we’ll have so much to celebrate.”
I gulped back the lump in my throat. Both my father and Adam, a man who was like a second father to me, were anticipating my proposal eagerly. I couldn’t let them down.
“Enough business talk,” my father said. “I need to prepare for the opera.”
It was Adam’s turn to wink at me and roll his eyes.
“I saw that,” my dad huffed.
“It’s not a test — you don’t need to study,” Adam shot back.
They immediately broke into another one of their old, practically rehearsed fights. I paid them no mind, having heard every line before.
In a few months’ time, I’d be engaged. To the woman I love, I tried to add mentally, but it wasn’t true. Or, rather, she was a woman I loved, but not a woman I was in love with. Was that splitting hairs? Or was it a distinction of the utmost importance?
