Icy Pretty Love

by L. A. Rose

  This is how I banish Rae. I’ll cut off pieces of her and discard them like broken limbs until she’s gone for good.

  When I step out, the salespeople lose their French aloofness for a moment to lavish me with compliments that I can’t understand. Shyness is something I gave up long ago, but I can’t help but cast my eyes aside and tilt my chin down. This dress makes me feel vulnerable. And vulnerability is something that Rae Grove could never afford.

  But I’m not Rae Grove anymore.

  I’m Georgette Montgomery.

  When Baldy sees me, he stops short and exclaims something in French.

  “No point insulting me unless you do it in English,” I say weakly.

  “You’re starting to look like someone worthy of Master Ashworth’s company,” he translates.

  I fall to my knees, alarming the staff, and try to decide between pressing a hand to my heart or wiping away a fake tear as an appropriate dramatic gesture. In the end, I do both. “Temper your gushing compliments, bald friend. My fragile heart can’t take it!”

  He mutters something in French to the wait staff, who look at me with sidelong concern.

  We buy the dress. And then another dress. And a silk scarf. Two silk scarves. And skirts, and blouses, and shoes, all of which cost more than I could probably get for my internal organs on the black market. Even my kidneys, which are choice, if I do say so myself.

  Baldy is an unexpectedly helpful shopping buddy. I learn to interpret his slight facial expressions. Pursed lips: “I worry that you will be mistaken for the least attractive Kardashian in that getup.” Tapping foot: “The color of that pantyhose is giving me clinical anxiety and I will discuss it with my therapist tomorrow.” No expression: “You are an exquisite, ravishing beauty.” A slight nod indicates compliments so comprehensive they cannot be translated into words.

  After we’re laden down with purchases, by which I mean Baldy has eight shopping backs balanced on various appendages while I skip ahead, we get lunch. And by lunch, I mean macarons. I used to think the macaron was an eye condition. Now I understand that it is heaven in the form of a colorful little cookie filled with something that is not quite cream and not quite jam, but strikes a perfect balance between the two.

  “I don’t know what the hell saffron is, but it’s a hell of a good flavor for a cookie,” I say, spraying crumbs on the table.

  Baldy pushes himself back in distaste. “I will remind myself to purchase an umbrella for the next time I have…lunch with you.”

  “Why so skeptical about the word lunch?” I swallow. “You got it right. The English word is lunch.”

  “I know the English word is lunch,” he scowls. “I am merely unsure that eight macarons qualifies.”

  “True. Back at home I usually had some potato chips with my lunch cookies. But don’t worry, these macarons were twenty euros, so this is like the fanciest and most expensive lunch I’ve ever had.”

  Baldy sighs. He takes a sip from a flask in his pocket that I suspect contains alcohol. Most likely wine. Damn French.

  “This is a lot of fun. You’re gonna be like my grumpy, well-meaning uncle. I’ve never had one of those and I always wanted to.”

  He sighs again.

  “One who sighs a lot.”

  One more sigh. Now that I’ve buttered him up, I can get some information out of him about my grumpy new fake fiancé. “So how well do you know Master Ashworth—er, Cohen?”

  “Long enough to know that he is unsuited for marriage, even a false one.”

  Aha! Gay as balls! Knew it. I lean forward conspiratorially. “I see I’m not the only one who knows Cohen’s secret.”

  Baldy splutters mid-sip from flask, spitting something deep red onto the table. Wine it is. That, or he’s got profuse internal bleeding. “You—he told you?”

  “Not exactly. I’m just very observant.” Leave it to me to solve the world’s mysteries. Something twinges in my stomach, though. Definitely not disappointment at having my suspicions concerned. Absolutely not. Poor digestion from a lunch of solely cookies, absolutely yes.

  “I suppose it’s not too difficult to imagine, you figuring it out,” he mutters. “Living there at night, after all…”

  I imagine a parade of well-oiled shirtless men on their nightly march into Cohen’s bedroom, armed with leather whips and assless chaps. Last night it must have been someone else’s turn to host. Well, the next time the gay train makes a stop at Casa Ashworth, I’ll be sure to hole up in my room and give them the privacy they deserve. They can even use the tub.

  “I assume Master Ashworth has already asked you to keep this knowledge to yourself,” Baldy says, resuming his flinty stare.

  “I wouldn’t say that, exactly. I mean, he doesn’t know I know.”

  “Then I’ll ask for him.” He rubs his forehead, and it seems to me that he’s older than he was a minute ago. “It’s a delicate situation. I do not wish him to continue this lifestyle, but…”

  “Hey now,” I interrupt. “It’s the twenty-first century.”

  “I’m sure you’re no stranger to those activities yourself,” he says coldly. Excuse you, Baldy! “But this is beside the point. I have hope he will come to his senses himself.”

  He’s genuinely agitated now. The Ashworths must be those hyper-intolerant, worst-kind-of-religious types. I wasn’t imagining the he douche vibes I got from Ashworth Sr. Always trust the douche vibes.

  “I won’t tell,” I promise. “His life, his privacy.”

  “Exactly my thinking.” Baldy relaxes, as much as an uptight old doorman can relax. “You must forgive him his…eccentricities. I have known him since he was a child. He’s had a hard time of it.”

  “Oh yeah,” I can’t help but laugh. “Sole heir to a bajillion dollars. Anything he’s ever wanted, whenever he’s wanted it. Maybe his daddy doesn’t approve of what he does in his spare time, but he still has a better life than ninety-nine percent of all the people I’ve ever met.”

  He frowns. “I wasn’t under the impression you knew him very well.”

  I stand up. “Cohen’s been served up a buffet of the best parts of life since he was born, and me and everyone I know, we’ve had to do horrible things for the shittiest scraps. So don’t ask me to feel sorry for Cohen Ashworth. Because I won’t.”

  “Some might call that heartless.”

  “Oh, I have a heart. And the only reason I still have one is because I’m careful not to let it bleed dry.” I force a smile. This is a path I hate going down. “Hey, let’s call a truce, yeah? You don’t have to like me, but active hatred isn’t really something I’m looking for from the one of three people I know here. I won’t let Cohen’s secret out of the bag, and you let me count you as an ally. Deal?”

  He looks at my hand and shakes it crisply, though I notice he rubs hand sanitizer between his palms afterwards. “May I suggest, however, that you look to the young master as your ally, first and foremost.”

  “Cohen’s not my ally. I’m not that stupid.” I remember one of the many rules my roommate taught me, back when I was new to the business: clients are the enemy. Remember that. We’re fighting a battle every day: as much as we can get from them while still giving up as little as possible. That way you get to keep some of yourself for yourself. What I realized after a while was that even if you give up just a little bit to each client, it adds up to a whole lot of your soul.

  Baldy is silent for a moment. “Try to look past what he is on the surface. Very few people do. That’s all I ask of you.”

  “There’s a reason people don’t get too friendly with porcupines, Baldy.” I wipe crumbs from my mouth. “Come on. I got a fancy dinner to get ready for.”

  He sighs again and gets up, loading bags onto one arm at a time. “There’s one more thing I must ask of you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Stop calling me Baldy.”

  ~4~

  “Tell me something about yourself, Georgette,” I ask the mirror, spinning so that the
lacy dress flares slightly and shows off my freshly-shaved, moisturized leg. “Where are you from?”

  “San Francisco,” I answer myself, shyly. “I grew up on a lovely estate. My parents were such fortunate people.”

  “I bet they fucking were!” I point at the mirror. “What are your favorite things, as a fancy rich person?”

  “Hmm.” I put my finger to my chin in mock thought. “Juice cleanses, frozen yogurt, pumpkin spice lattes in the fall…oh, the list goes on and on.”

  “I just bet it does!” I exclaim. “You seem like a cultured, well-mannered young lady. Definitely not the scum of the earth from the armpit of the earth. Definitely not the type of person who’s ever done something awful for money. You’re pure and perfect, aren’t you? Untouched.”

  That last word trails off into an emptiness and I’m left looking into my own stupid eyes. Those eyes that have stared back at me in every mirror I’ve ever looked into, despite all the different people I’ve been. Those eyes have always stayed the same. Except, over the years, they’ve gotten more tired.

  Once this is all over, I’ll invest in some colored contacts. Sky-blue eyes would be a good look for me. The kind of blue too clear to hide any darkness at all. A lot of screwed-up things can hide in dark brown eyes.

  I take a deep breath, set a smile on my face, and go downstairs.

  Cohen is waiting for me in the lobby, looking haughty and elegant in a fitted black suit. The gay community of Paris must have thrown a parade the day his father decided to ship him here. At the sight of him, my uterus is tempted to throw a parade as well. Maybe it’s his gayness that makes me attracted to him. It removes the element of fear.

  Most of it, at least. Gay guys still have fists.

  But when he sees me, it looks very like the idea of hitting me is a million miles away from his brain. If I wasn’t smart, I’d say his eyes widened minutely. But I’m smart enough to know that what you see with your eyes isn’t always the truth. A smile doesn’t always mean kindness. An extended hand isn’t always an offer of help.

  At any rate, it’s time for me to prove that I can play this role. I cast my eyes away from his, shyly, and curtsey. “I’m ready to go,” I say in a small voice.

  When I glance up again, his eyes are narrowed. “Then follow me.”

  “Yes, of course, my love.” I give a tiny smile and catch sight of Baldy—er, Renard—watching us as we walk into the cool Parisian night.

  The key to being a perfect woman is smallness. Men like their girls tiny. Breakable. Sweet as sugar and just as likely to dissolve. You’re not meant to take up as much space as them. Decorative figurines that go on shelves are little, too.

  A shiny black car is parked on the side of the street. Cohen opens the door without saying a word, then climbs in after me. There’s a smooth divide between us and the driver. We’re alone in a miniscule, expensively upholstered room. I glue my nose to the window, entranced by the lights flashing by, before remembering that’s not something ladies do.

  I clear my throat in a bashful way. “I had a wonderful day with Renard today. I thank you so much for the opportunity to—”

  “Stop,” he interrupts.

  I stop. His face is carved up by the moving shadows of the outside world, but I read anger in the furrows of his brow.

  “You don’t need to do that when it’s just us,” he says, though he’s looking out the window and not at me.

  “Do what?”

  “The acting. You’ve already made it fairly clear that’s not really you.”

  He’s right. I was entirelyß myself around him yesterday. Without even thinking. Usually I keep a tight lid on the real Rae Grove, letting her out only around people who I’m sure won’t hurt her.

  You have to be careful who you let see the real you. If you wear a mask and someone chips it, it doesn’t matter. But leave your true heart exposed? Pieces of that won’t grow back.

  What is it about him that cuts through my defenses like butter?

  “I was thinking I’d save you from the real me.” I smile. “She has a temper and no filter. She’s stubborn and takes up too much space. Girls like her don’t get far in life.”

  He’s quiet for a little while. “You don’t seem to like her very much,” he says, his voice controlled, betraying nothing.

  “Who would?” I yawn and stretch. “Georgette’s much better. You’ll see. I’ll slip into her easier if you let me be her all the time.”

  “No.” His voice is hard and sure. Miraculously, he doesn’t make a joke out of ‘slip into her.’ “Be yourself. I get enough pretending from the other people in my life.” He pauses, and then says so quietly I barely hear him, “If you hide who really are long enough, you’ll lose her.”

  “How am I going to be myself if I’m supposed to talk to you as little as possible?” I tease.

  “When you do speak to me, I’d prefer if it you were your annoying self.” He finally glances at me. I pride myself on being able to tell what a man is thinking, but his face is a locked safe and the key’s at the bottom of the ocean. “It’s…”

  “It’s what?”

  “Nothing.” He returns his gaze to the window.

  Huh. Cohen Ashworth, mystery man of the century. The biggest mystery is the warm glow his words lit in my stomach. I scoot closer, which is a stupid idea, because he turns to me again—full lips angular cheekbones ice eyes—and the proximity is enough to set off a whole new warm glow in my stomach, albeit of a very different kind. Stop it, Rae. That warmth will never be stoked into a fire and you know it.

  I want to tell him I know what he really is, that it’s okay and I’ll keep his secret, but before I can, the car gravels to a stop. Cohen gets out and holds the door open for me again.

  “Chivalry isn’t really what I expected from you,” I remark, smoothing the lace on my lap.

  “You’re my fiancé, remember?” His lips curve in a sardonic smile. A very kissable sardonic smile. Ugh.

  He holds out his arm and I take it. I’ve never walked anywhere like this with a man. If I’m going somewhere with a client and our body parts are touching, it’s usually his hand on my ass. His mouth on my lips. I shudder and remind myself to be thankful that Cohen is flying the rainbow flag.

  Although he doesn’t seem to wear anything but black and gray.

  We walk into the restaurant together. It’s like a dragon’s lair. Everything is golden—golden light, golden walls, golden people. The floors are polished like mirrors. I look down and I can see my own face, small and overwhelmed. I banish the overwhelmed, but keep the small. This is Georgette Montgomery’s home turf. It doesn’t matter if Rae Grove is still waiting to be kicked out like a rat that scurried in to get out of the cold.

  I didn’t know that waiters wore those funny-looking grasshopper outfits in real life, or that there were people who could carry silver platters covered in champagne flutes one-handed. I didn’t know that there were restaurant ceilings so high, or live music so beautiful. I didn’t know that people could be this happy. Suddenly I want to cry.

  Stop it, Rae. Stop it. Just because you’re in the fox’s den and wearing furry ears, it doesn’t mean you’re not still prey.

  “This way.” Cohen guides my elbow gently and the rest of me follows.

  A waiter chases us down and says something in French, probably along the lines of may we help you, sir?

  “I’m here with a party of two,” he says abruptly, without stopping his stride into the dining room. He walks like someone who wants to get this over with as quickly as possible.

  The waiter switches to English. “Then allow me to—”

  “I could never stand that attitude waiters have that I’m too stupid to handle my own business,” Cohen snaps. “I know who I’m here to meet and I’ll find them myself.”

  The waiter blanches. I blink, my mouth slightly open. It’s the first interaction I’ve seen Cohen have with someone other than me, Renard, or his father, the latter who deserved the cutting tone
. I’m starting to understand why they had to hire someone like me, someone used to poor treatment, to play his fiancé.

  I’m about to demand he apologize when I look up and see the fine line at the corner of his mouth. He’s worried this isn’t going to work.

  “Relax,” I tell him quietly. “I’ve got this under control.”

  He starts, like he isn’t sure how I responded correctly to something he didn’t say, but before he can ask, we’re at the table.

  “Ah, Cohen.” The older man who stands up is the definition of grandfatherly—dust-grey hair swept neatly back from his forehead, skin like well-worn tissue paper, smile lines etched around his mouth and eyes. “How wonderful to see you again.”

  Though his French accent is strong, his English is impeccable. He grasps Cohen’s hand like he’s known him forever. The other two people at the table—a guy in his twenties with an underbite that could catch a school of fish and a stunning woman with ruby earrings—look me up and down.

  “And this,” says the older man reverently, releasing Cohen’s hand and reaching for mine, “must be her.”

  There’s a moment of awkward silence in which Cohen fails to introduce me.

  “You must be Mr. LeCrue,” I twinkle, offering a firm yet delicate shake. “I’ve heard so much about you. I’m Georgette Montgomery, and, well—” I look down, summoning a blush. “You must have heard the news.”

  “Heard I did, but believe I did not—until now.” LeCrue shakes his head and lets out a whoosh of breath. Cohen still hasn’t said a word. Impatience and irritation emanate from him in an itchy cloud. He might as well be yelling about how stupid he thinks this whole thing is. I can only hope he doesn’t blow it.

  The underbite guy stands up and slaps Cohen on the back with the air of a nerdy high schooler trying to act like one of the cool jocks. “Nice one, Cohen,” he leers. Cohen gives him one look and he removes his hand immediately, turning to me instead. “You’re way too gorgeous to have to put up with Mr. Attitude. What’s your damage?”

  Georgette blushes some more. I decide, with complete finality, I do not like this guy.