by S. L. Scott
“I was fine,” she replied, her voice lower, her tone solemn. “Not much scares me these days.”
“I see.”
We keep looking at each other, but this time in silence. My heart starts beating in an unfamiliar staccato, and although cars are driving by and other patrons are around us, I wonder if she can hear it.
Taking a fry, she says, “You should eat them while they’re hot. They’re best that way.” After biting it, she sets the rest down and picks up her book and purse. She seems to wrestle with something on her mind. “I should go.”
“What? Why? We’re sharing here. You can’t leave in the middle of a plate of fries.”
Her shoulders sag as a debate wars in her eyes. “I shouldn’t have come tonight.”
“Why did you?”
“You.”
I got the answer I was hoping for, but I don’t feel the satisfaction I thought I would, not when she looks sad. “What’s wrong, Winter?”
Watching her run the pendant along the chain again, I think it’s a sign of anxiety. She says, “I don’t know what I was thinking or what I’m doing. I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression.”
“You didn’t. You’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing to lead me on if that’s what worries you.”
“Being here is leading you on. Sitting here for two hours reading a book in hopes you might come . . . Everything I’ve done is wrong.” She sighs. “I need to go . . . I should go.”
“I’ll walk with you, not follow, but with you. Give me to the corner to be a quiet companion again.”
“I don’t want you quiet. I quite like our conversations and the meaning under the pretense of nonsense. That’s why I should leave.”
“Someone once told me that every day is a new opportunity to take a chance.”
“A chance at what?”
“Me.” I was burying myself in this lie to spend more time with her, but the truth kept sneaking out as if she’d see it if I didn’t say it.
“So if I stay, what happens then?”
“We talk about the weather, Paris, the book you’re reading. Anything you want to talk about.”
Leaning back, she seems to carry the world on her shoulders and uses the chair for support. “I don’t even remember how to make conversation anymore.”
“Why is that?”
“Look around. It’s a beautiful city, but it’s the loneliest place on earth.”
“Why do you stay?”
“Because you asked me to.”
I shake my head. “No, I mean in Paris.”
“Ah. That. Well,” she says, watching a couple passing by. “That will take more time than we have.”
“I have all the time in the world tonight.”
Her smile returns. “You’re very charming.”
“See? Now there’s a reason to stay.”
“No. That’s definitely a reason to leave,” she says, standing up.
I stand in response, tempted to touch her, to keep her here eating fries and drinking wine as if hours of daylight remain. I reach for my wallet and put money on the table.
When she glances down, she smiles and picks up a few bills. Handing them back to me, she says, “Do you always overpay?”
“I have no idea how much these French bills are worth.”
“You’re a lost cause, movie star.”
“I am. Maybe you can help me.”
In a standoff, we stay where we are. Pausing through several heartbeats, she then rolls her eyes. “Fine. Come on. I’ll let you walk with me.”
Chuckling, I follow her from where we were tucked away at a table. “Thanks for the favor.”
On the sidewalk, she waits for me. “Ready?”
“Yes.” So ready.
4
Bennett
It’s not like I don’t date beautiful women. I have a phone full of numbers I can call at any hour—day or night. Yet I can’t remember the last time I actually called one of those numbers.
Not that this is a date.
It’s not.
Nope.
It’s a stroll. She’s rubbing off on me. Not only do I roll my eyes that I used her word “stroll,” but I rolled my eyes. I glance over at her. A little smile plays on her lips, whisking a shyness that seems to come and go across her delicate features. Even if she was snarky the first time we met, she’s not this evening. As a matter of fact, she’s like a whole other person not only from last night but also from what I expected.
The beauty has an indescribable appeal. There’s the obvious—her attractive face, great body, and underlying confidence that sparks in a good debate. Magic encircles her, an aura that demands attention. I’m inexplicably drawn to her and it seems she might be feeling the same since she was waiting for me this evening. What the hell has gotten into me?
She stops a few feet ahead and looks back with concern knitting her brows. “What’s wrong?”
“Paris.”
A smile returns, and she comes back. “It has a way of doing that. One minute, you’re strolling along the Seine. The next minute, you’re in love—with the city, the music, the culture . . .” She turns her gaze to follow a car when it passes, and I hear her whisper, “Practically a stranger.” Turning to me, she smiles. “I listened to your song.”
I don’t want to keep walking. Being with her feels so good despite the ending up ahead. “What’d you think?”
“I think you’re a romantic at heart, Bennett Everest.”
I shrug. “Maybe. I haven’t thought about it before.”
“I’m not normally like this.”
“What are you normally like?”
She shifts, and then says, “Unhappy,” before turning away.
Unhappy? Why is she unhappy? It doesn’t take but two steps for me to fill that companion role again. What do I say to her? How do I delve into her life like I have a right to be a part of it? “I don’t want you unhappy. I enjoy your smile.”
She smiles for me. “I enjoy yours, too.”
“Winter?” I realize not knowing the reason she’s here and the reason she hasn’t returned to New York might be more complicated than some superficial, easy out answer.
“Bennett?” she teases, mimicking me by bumping into my arm.
“You’re visiting Paris?”
“No, I’m breaking in Paris.”
“What does that mean?”
Waving it off like I’ll let that lie, she says, “You really should see the Eiffel Tower at night. How long will you be here?”
“Only a few days.” Please don’t ask me why I’m here. I don’t want to lie to you. Omissions are lies. I’m in deep already.
Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, she turns, pressing her hands on my chest. “You have to see it. You can’t travel all the way from America and not see it at night.”
She starts to turn away, but I hold her hands to me, wanting her right there. “Show me, Winter. Tonight.”
Her hands relax in mine, and her bottom lip gets tugged under her teeth. Looking toward the other side of the street like she might find the answer there, she shakes her head. “I can’t.” Striking blues look up at me. “I wish I could. If we had met under different circumstances—”
“Like at the Louvre or maybe eating croissants along the riverbank? Those types of circumstances? Because I don’t understand how it would be different from meeting each other at a bistro.”
“No.” Her hands disappear from under mine. “I don’t know what spell we’re under, but it’s a bubble that’s bound to burst. Why do I feel like we’ve known each other longer than we have?” Why do I feel that she keeps reading my mind? This instant attraction . . . it’s not me.
“I feel the same if that makes a difference.”
“It does make a difference, but have you ever heard of bad timing?”
“Is that what you think we have? That’s a bit assumptive.”
She shrugs with a giggle. “Well, you know me and my assumptions.”
“So let me get this straight. Even though I’m not asking you out, you’re ending us before I do?”
“Just saving you the trouble, in case you were thinking about it.”
Scratching my head, I reply, “I don’t think I’ve ever been shot down before I had time to take off.”
Keeping her front toward me, she starts walking again. “There’s something so magical about this city. Go see the Tower.”
“And then what?”
“Think of me.”
“Why don’t you show me instead?”
When I start walking, she puts her hands up. “Because this is our goodbye.”
“I don’t want to say goodbye. Not yet.” My brothers would tell me to let it lie, to let her go. To do my job and not get distracted. My sister-in-law Singer would tell me if it’s meant to be . . . Meant to be? Fuck. Why am I acting like she’s the last woman on earth?
“Then say au revoir.” Her melodic voice is fitting for the idyllic scenery.
I should tell her who I am, but I hold back. I may not know what secrets this mysterious woman keeps, but I know enough to not tell her I’m here on her father’s behalf. “Will I see you again?”
A soft smile graces her lips. “If wishes come true and fate has her way.”
“Fate, huh? Hey, Winter?” Although she’s walking away, her feet appear to move slower, fatigue or an equally heavy emotion coming over her. Stopping, she glances over her shoulder. “What book were you reading?”
Holding it up, she says, “The Resistance.”
“What’s it about?”
She laughs, and it’s quite a sight to see her expression so light, and the heaviness gone from her face. “A rock star who meets his match in a clever, and I might add badass, heroine.”
“Sounds like some other people I know.”
Catching my eyes, she laughs. “I don’t need to save a rock star.”
I can’t stop myself. I roll my thumb over my bottom lip, and then ask, “What about a movie star?”
“Do you need saving, Mr. Everest?”
“I might if you’re the one doing it. And I’m always happy to return the favor.”
Her expression wavers between two emotions—intrigued and shy. Both look damn good on her. “I might take you up on that offer.” Just when I think I’ve convinced her to stay, she starts walking away again. “Good night.”
“Hey, Winter?”
Jokingly, she throws her arms wide. “What is it, Bennett?”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” The promise secures her smile as if it’s permanently in place. “Au revoir.”
Her hair swings side to side when she turns around, putting her back that is rocking with laughter to me.
I remain on that sidewalk long after she’s gone. Not because I think she’ll return, but because I can still feel her when I’m here. It’s a good feeling.
* * *
I didn’t realize how far I’d traveled to the bistro, but the long walk back to the hotel is good for me. My head is clearer in the cool night air. I stay under the Louvre archways until I’m walking on Rue de Rivoli.
Inside the swanky hotel, chandeliers hang high from the coffered ceilings. Large planters of flowers stand guard along the walls. Modern art is juxtaposed to the historical elements that remain from the past.
Needing a strong drink, I detour to the bar, finding a place in a cognac-colored leather chair in the corner to sit and stretch my long legs. It would be nice to have bigger furniture. What’s up with the small tables in this city? I set my phone on the brass top table just as a waitress sets a cocktail napkin down next to it. She dips down, and says, “Bonsoir.”
“Bonsoir.”
“Américain?”
“Oui.” I guess I don’t fit in as well as I thought.
“Would you like something from the bar?”
“Bourbon. Neat.”
“Oui.”
The bar’s not crowded, but the brown paneling, leather chairs, roaring fire in the corner, and an assortment of liquor bottles on display appear to cater to a traveling business crowd. I don’t feel bad for making a call because the atmosphere seems to be okay with it. I check my watch to calculate the time between Paris and Manhattan just as the phone rings.
“Why are you still in France?”
No greeting. Ethan is all business. He just goes straight in, causing me to chuckle. He’ll never change. The middle Everest brother commands attention; whether he’s in a bar or the boardroom, he owns the space with not only his presence but also his intellect.
My older brother, Hutton, garners his own share of interest but in different ways. My siblings and I have hair darker than the average brown like our mother, but Hutton is the darkest haired of us all and stands the tallest at six foot four. At six three, I’m no slouch, but damn him for that extra inch that he often uses to his advantage in business and in life. In contrast to his build, he’s actually rational and has patience in spades. Unlike myself.
Unlike Ethan as well.
Ethan is ambitious, focused, and good at every fucking thing he does. It’s frustrating, but when it comes to the Everest brothers, the best was saved for last.
At twenty-six, I’ve come to respect my brothers and have learned a lot not only from my father, who owns his own financial firm but my brothers. Ethan, who became one of the youngest billionaires in history, was smart enough to bring Hutton and me along with him, making us richer than any man has a right to be.
Finances aren’t everything though. My brothers may have found their matches, but when I think back on the beautiful Winter, being single has its perks.
The drink is set in front of me. “Merci,” I tell the waitress before returning my focus to the call. “Things are . . . complicated.”
“I don’t understand why you’re there in the first place. How does bringing Nobleman’s daughter back to New York get our contract signed?”
“It happened so fast, and suddenly, I was on a flight in the middle of the night. It’s a long story.”
“I have time.”
“Is Hutton there?”
“No, he’s been buried in numbers for two days straight preparing for the end of year financials.”
Taking a sip of the smooth amber liquid, I relish in the way the liquor warms some of the chill from my body. “Ethan, we were so close. Nobleman had the pen in his hand, ready to sign.”
I recall the memory with clarity . . .
The lines in Nobleman’s face have deepened. Stress. It’s a bitch. He looks at me from across the conference table with his hands clasped on top. “I like your concept and the energy you’ve put into this project, Mr. Everest—”
I shift in my chair, angling toward the client. “I sense a but.”
He delivers. “But it’s a stretch for Nobleman Inc.”
“Stretch? Or out of your comfort zone? I’m guessing comfort zone, Mr. Nobleman. But that’s why you called me. That’s why I’m here. You don’t want ordinary. You’re tired of settling for the same companies monopolizing the market and giving you poor service in return.”
When he sits backs with a relaxed posture, I know I have him where I want him—one step closer to closing this deal. “And Everest Enterprises is different?” he asks.
“I’m not selling you a marketing package. I’m not telling you how to run your business or stepping out as a PR rep for your firm. Those other conglomerates try to cover all the bases but fail at the basics. Communications.”
He crosses his arms in thoughtful reproach. “Communications?”
“Good old-fashioned media coverage. We’ll make sure the equipment is top of the line, monitored on-site, and in place for all your major events. Last year you held two events and lost a signal halfway through your presentation. Our consultants will work directly with your communications department to create a plan that covers every aspect and then follow through with it from beginning to end.”
Sitting up, he taps the portfolio my team customized for his bus
iness and says, “You’ve told me why we should go with Everest, but how?”
“How?”
“How much will it cost me, and how will you guarantee that the transition runs smoothly without interrupting our daily business?”
“I’ll personally work with your team to ensure there are no disruptions and that you’re treated like the priority you are to Everest Media and the parent company of Everest Enterprises. Because when you’re working with one, you’re a priority to all.” I reach across to the head of the table and flip the portfolio open. “Just sign on the dotted line, and we’ll be here tomorrow to start the process.”
Resting his arms on the table, he laughs. “You expect me to sign over eight million dollars in a four-year contract without negotiation? You have balls, Bennett.”
“Big fucking balls, but I can back ’em, so I’m not moving from the price because it’s a solid and fair price. I didn’t quote you a rate to negotiate. I quoted you the best price from the start.”
He pushes up, his fingers whitening against the glass top conference table. “There’s something about you, Everest.” He grins, and I know this is it. Holding out his hand, he says, “Pen.”
I whip my Mont Blanc from the inside pocket of my jacket, and just as he’s about to sign, his phone rings, distracting him from the task at hand. After glancing at the screen, he says, “I need to take this.”
. . . Ethan listens to my retelling of the story, and then asks, “Connect the dots for me, Bennett.”
Holding the phone closer to my ear when some patrons at another table get loud inside the bar, I reply, “He was distraught when he hung up. I tried to excuse myself, but he told me about his daughter. I couldn’t leave. She hasn’t been in contact with him for nearly a month and he struggles to concentrate on business because he’s worried about her. Apparently, he knows through a PI that she’s all right, but he doesn’t know why she won’t come home.”
“A PI?” He sighs loud and clear. He’s not wrong for being concerned. I was too. I still am, and I know more than I’m telling him. “Look, Ben,” he says, “I get that he’s worried, but that’s personal.”
“He asked about our connections in Europe.”
