Olivier: A Chicago Blaze Hockey Romance

by Brenda Rothert

  I give her a look. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “I would if I were you,” she says, shrugging.

  “Really?”

  “He’s hot, Daphne. And I saw the outline of his dick in a photo online of him out running in shorts. It’s impressive.”

  “You’re ridiculous.” I roll my eyes at her as I pack the tiny handbag I’m carrying tonight.

  “If you do sleep with him, wash off your eye makeup before you go to bed or you’ll look scary when you wake up in the morning. That’s why I was asking.”

  “We’re just hanging out,” I say firmly. “Dinner and conversation. Nothing more. I told him that.”

  “Only you would friend zone a hot billionaire who literally rescued you from a burning car,” she says, shaking her head.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand.

  “I love you, but you’re a martyr. If Mom and Dad say yes, you say no. It doesn’t matter what the question is.”

  I scowl with disapproval, her words making me bristle.

  “This isn’t about Mom and Dad. I just got out of a long relationship. We were engaged. I want to focus on myself for a while, and when I am ready for a relationship again, I can’t see myself with a billionaire. Yes, he saved my life, Jules. I’m grateful. But I’d rather be with a man who has $100 and gives $99 to people who need it than a billionaire.”

  She sighs softly. “Just have fun tonight, okay? You deserve it.”

  “I will.” I take her hand and squeeze it. “I’m good, okay? I’m really happy with my life right now.”

  Julia nods. “I guess Olivier will be here soon, so I’m going to get moving. I was so looking forward to this time away from Andrew and the kids and now I miss them. That’s how it goes every time.”

  I help her pack up her hair and makeup supplies and we say our goodbyes. Then I’ve got nothing to do but scroll my phone until Olivier rings my doorbell right on time.

  When I open the door, he’s standing there in dark gray slacks and a light blue dress shirt with the top button undone and the sleeves rolled up. We both say “hi” at the same time, making his smile widen.

  “You look beautiful,” he says softly.

  “Oh.” I look down at my outfit, though I don’t know why, and then back up at him. “Thanks.”

  “We’ve got a couple photographers on our tail. My security guys will keep them from getting too close.”

  “Okay.”

  He grins as I close the door to my apartment and lock it up. “Maybe I should just kiss you now so they can get their pictures and then they’ll leave.”

  His playful tone makes my heartrate speed up, but I keep my poker face on.

  “We’re just hanging out, remember? No kissing.”

  Olivier creases his forehead and sucks in a breath. “Actually, I had one of my attorneys look up the rules for hanging out and kissing is definitely allowed.”

  “Is that right?” I arch a brow, amused.

  “It’s actually encouraged, from what I was told.”

  He leads the way to a black SUV parked in front of my building, where a man nods and smiles at me as he stands by the door.

  “Daphne, this is Ben,” Olivier says. “He’ll be driving us tonight.”

  “Hi, Ben.” I offer him my hand for a handshake, and he takes it, his smile making the corners of his eyes crinkle.

  “Daphne, it’s a real pleasure. I was there that day when Olivier pulled you from the car. I wanted to come help, but the boss man’s a lot faster because I’ve got a bum leg.”

  I like him. His warm, happy demeanor makes me feel like we’re old friends.

  “I’m grateful to you both,” I say. “Thank you.”

  I get in the car and Olivier lets himself into the other side of the back seat. We make small talk with Ben about our recoveries from the accident, sports and my work during the thirty-minute drive to the restaurant.

  When we arrive at Fig, the restaurant has a line out the door and down the sidewalk. I meet Ben’s eyes as he waits beside my open door, wishing he could come to dinner with us. He puts me at a constant state of ease, whereas with Olivier I feel at ease sometimes and nervous other times. And I can’t even predict when the nervousness will hit—sometimes it’s just having his intense blue eyes focused on me, and wondering what he’s thinking.

  “He’s a good man,” Ben says in tone so low only I can hear it.

  I smile at him and he winks at me. He gets back into the SUV and drives away, and Olivier takes my hand and leads me through the crowd on the sidewalk.

  Holding hands must be in his made-up rule book, too. But things between us aren’t going any further than that.

  “Mr. Durand,” the man at the host stand says when we get inside. “We’re so pleased you’re here tonight. Right this way.”

  It reminds me of going places with my father. People are staring and the staff is falling all over themselves trying to impress us. When I was young, I thought it was because we were special. But as I grew up, I realized it was all about money.

  If you have it, all doors are open. And if you don’t, most or all of them are shut. Even doors that lead to basic needs such as food and shelter. Once I figured that out, I no longer felt special when I went out to dinner with my family at places where the price of one steak could feed a family of three for a week—I felt ashamed.

  “I hope this place is okay,” Olivier says once we’re alone at our table. “My marketing director at the Carson Center recommended it. Her son works here.”

  “It’s good. I mean, it looks really good. I usually don’t sit down at restaurants anymore, but I do get a lot of takeout.”

  He smiles. “Yeah, Giselle and I end up getting a lot of takeout, too. There’s a noodle place by our apartment she loves. We get their food at least once a week.”

  “So is it just you and her?”

  “For the past year or so it has been. Her mom lives in the area, but things aren’t so great between them right now.”

  “And Giselle is sixteen?”

  “Yeah.” He takes out his phone and pulls up a photo. “This is her.”

  She’s standing on a cobblestone street, both arms out in the air, grinning. The Eiffel Tower is behind her in the distance. She has the same sandy brown hair as her father does, with blue eyes and braces on her teeth.

  “She’s pretty,” I say, glancing up to meet his eyes.

  “Thank you.”

  “Does she do any activities or sports?”

  His smile fades. “Not anymore. To be honest, the past year has been a struggle for my daughter. She has depression.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Thanks. We’re getting help, but I’m finding out that it’s still hard sometimes. As a father, I just want to make it better, but usually I can’t.”

  His forlorn expression is one I’ve never seen on Olivier. I didn’t imagine him ever looking or feeling helpless. It’s apparent he hurts for his daughter, and loves her deeply. And I’m drawn to that.

  “Never stop trying,” I say, reaching across the table and taking his hand. “You’re doing a great job.”

  The corners of his lips turn up slightly and he squeezes my hand gently. “Thanks for saying that. It’s tough sometimes, but she’s worth it.”

  Our eyes meet across the table, and stomach flutters. I wasn’t expecting this. I knew Olivier was attractive and charming, but this…this is something different.

  My pulse is pounding. My skin is tingling. It’s like something clicked into place, and now I can’t deny it anymore. At least, not to myself.

  Olivier Durand and I have some serious chemistry happening.

  Chapter Eleven

  Olivier

  Daphne is laughing so hard she’s wiping away tears from the corners of her eyes.

  “So Grandma Jo told my mom she would end up stranded on a remote island during their next sailing trip if she didn’t stop fighting Julia over every little thing she wanted
for her wedding. And my mom’s eyes were like saucers—she knew not to put anything past my grandma. And all of a sudden, she told Julia her Neapolitan cake would be just fine.”

  Laughing at the image of Josephine Barrington’s no-nonsense tone and fiery attitude, I say, “I can definitely see her doing that.”

  Her laughter becomes a smile, her eyes shining with happiness. “Grandma Jo is the fiercest woman I know. I think I’m more like her than my mother. She fights different battles than I do, but the spirit is the same, you know? A long time ago, she convinced all the wives at her exclusive country club to stop cooking dinner and having sex with their husbands until they changed the rules to open up the club fully to everyone, regardless of their gender, race or sexual orientation.”

  I laugh, and I can feel Daphne looking at me as I do. It’s nearly 11:00 p.m., and we’ve been sitting in a little ice cream shop for more than an hour, two empty dishes in front of us. It’s been a great night, and I don’t want it to end.

  “How did that work out?” I ask.

  “It took less than two weeks, and the rules got changed. And when one of the men was bragging about his wife cooking him dinner and screwing his brains out when the boycott was on, my grandma blackballed her. No bridge club. No chairing committees. She was persona non grata forever more.”

  “Scorched earth, huh?”

  Daphne nods, mining the bottom of her tall sundae glass with her long spoon for a melted bite of ice cream. “She’s a force to be reckoned with, wrapped in a well-groomed but irreverent package.”

  “I think it was Mark Twain who said irreverence is the champion of liberty.”

  A smile tugs at Daphne’s lips, her eyes alight. She puts her elbow on the table and rests her chin on her palm. “I’m surprised you know Twain. Didn’t you go to school in France?”

  “Through high school. But then I went to Oxford on a scholarship and I got my MBA at Harvard. It was a lit class at Harvard where I learned about Twain.”

  “A scholarship? So you weren’t born into money?”

  With a single note of laughter, I say, “No. I actually grew up in a pretty poor family. My mother was an actress before they had me, but she never hit it big. And then she stayed home to raise me and my dad drove a truck for a local dairy farm.”

  “So you didn’t grow up in Paris?”

  “No, we lived in a little town called Sousceyrac.”

  Daphne’s cheeks turn pink and she looks down at the table.

  “What?” I ask.

  She shakes her head, looking at something behind me, seemingly unable to meet my eyes.

  “Your accent. When you pronounced the town name, I just…”

  Her cheeks darken further, and I laugh.

  “Is that all I need to do? Just speak a little French to you? Tu es très belle ma chérie.”

  “Don’t try to make me weak-kneed with your romantic French talk,” she says, trying for a firm tone but unable to keep from smiling. “It won’t work.”

  “No? Not even a little?”

  She tries to cover her smile with her hand, and I laugh.

  “You really do have all the things most single women are looking for,” she says softly. “You’re wealthy, handsome, kind and of course, you speak French.”

  I give her a skeptical look. “What about smart? Chivalrous? A hell of a poet? You forgot all that.”

  “And modest,” she says, smirking. “Can’t forget that.”

  “That, too.”

  We lock eyes, and the pull between us is so strong it’s almost physical. I’ve been feeling it all night. Daphne may say she doesn’t want anything but “hanging out”—whatever that means, but she’s lying. She wants me, too. My instincts have never steered me wrong. This whole night has built up sexual tension and longing that will drive me out of my mind in the days to come.

  “Sir?” a teenage kid’s voice says from beside our table.

  I look over, the spell between me and Daphne broken.

  “We’re closing, sir,” the kid says, pointing at the sign on the door with the shop’s hours.

  Daphne and I both glance around and see that the chairs are turned upside down on every table but the one we’re sitting at. We’re the only people left in the place except the three employees giving us bored, get the hell out of here looks.

  “Sorry,” Daphne says. “We lost track of time.”

  “Yeah, no problem,” the kid says. “You guys can leave your dishes; we’ll take care of them.”

  Glancing at my watch, I see that it’s 11:20 p.m., and the sign on the shop’s door says it closed at 11:00 p.m. I take out my wallet and peel off three fifties—the smallest bills I have in cash—and pass them to the kid.

  “Thanks for letting us stay late,” I say.

  His eyes widen. “Oh, you don’t have to do that, sir. This happens all the time.”

  Since he won’t take the bills, I set them on the table. “The ice cream was great. Thanks.”

  “Thank you,” he says, grinning. “That’s really nice of you.”

  Daphne slides her coat on, and I pick up my wool trench coat from the empty chair at our table.

  “Have a good night,” Daphne says to the kid, waving as we leave the shop.

  “You too,” he calls, waving back as he picks up the cash.

  Daphne gives me a sidelong glance as we walk to my SUV. “That was nice of you.”

  I shrug. “No big deal. That was some amazing pistachio ice cream.”

  “Mine was really good, too.”

  Ben is waiting by Daphne’s open car door. She asked him if he wanted ice cream, too, but he passed. As soon as she’s in the car and he closes her door, Ben gives me an encouraging smile. I can practically hear his unspoken words.

  This is a great woman, Olivier. Don’t let her get away.

  I can tell Daphne is softening, but I don’t want to move too fast and spook her. It’s a complicated dance we’re doing, and I don’t want to get a single step wrong.

  When Daphne yawns on the drive home, I suddenly wish she was coming back to my place. For a few hours of sweaty sex, of course, but also because I want to see her makeup free, in whatever she likes to wear to bed, and have a soft, sleepy, end-of-the-night conversation with her.

  I’ve never looked at any woman and wished for that, but Daphne is different from other women in every respect. It’s maddeningly good to want her this much.

  “What was it like growing up in your little French town?” she asks, resting her head on her headrest as she turns to face me.

  “Not as idyllic as a lot of people think,” I admit. “I didn’t get to venture out of Sousceyrac until I was a teenager, because we couldn’t afford it. My dad lost his job when I was ten and that was hard. For all of us. My mom and I did what we could to keep the family afloat—she did ironing and sewing and I did chores for a couple local farmers, but…” I shake my head as I remember those days. “It was hard for my dad. He was angry and bitter and I see now that it came from a place of shame that he couldn’t care for his family, but to a kid it just felt like he was mad at the world.”

  “That sounds hard.” Daphne’s brow is furrowed with concern.

  “I promised myself when I was a teenager that I’d be financially secure. So I could take care of my parents when they needed it, and so I never turned into my father. He never really got over feeling like a failure over losing his job.”

  “Are your parents still around?”

  “My dad passed away about ten years ago. He and my mom lived in a small Italian villa I bought with my first really big payday. I asked them to take care of it for me. She still lives there today.”

  Ben brings the car to a stop in front of Daphne’s building. She touches my hand in silent acknowledgment of what I told her about my parents, and then Ben opens her door.

  I get out on my side of the car and meet her on the sidewalk, then walk her up the stairs to the front entrance of her building. The place is old and neglected, and I gat
her from looking at it that Daphne is living exclusively on her Safe Harbor salary rather than her family’s money. I admire her for that.

  “I had fun,” she says, reaching into her bag for her keys. “Thank you.”

  “So did I. When can I see you again?”

  She smiles and looks up at me. “You want to go on another non-date with me?”

  “I do. And I think you want it, too.”

  “He’s a mind reader, too,” she says wryly. “You really are a man of many talents.”

  “Next Friday night?” I ask, grinning.

  I watch as she thinks it over, hoping she’ll say yes. “I can’t on Friday night, I’m training new volunteers on field outreach.”

  “On a Friday night?”

  “Yeah. We go out into areas where there are homeless camps and into parks to help people. We pass out clean needles, food bags, blankets, that kind of thing.”

  I suppress a sigh. “You go out in downtown Chicago at night to find drug addicts?”

  “And others, yes.”

  “Daphne.”

  She cocks a brow at me in question, and I shake my head.

  “That sounds unsafe,” I say.

  “Yet I do it once a month and I’m still in one piece.”

  I put my hands on my hips, agitated. “But it only takes one—”

  She cuts me off. “How about Saturday night?”

  I see what she did there. Ignoring my concerns for her safety and distracting me by offering something she knows I want. I’ll come back to my concerns later.

  “Giselle is seeing her mom next Saturday afternoon. I want to be home when she gets back in case it doesn’t go well. It generally ends in tears.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. You’re a good dad for wanting to be there for her.”

  “Lunch next Sunday?” I ask.

  “I can do that.”

  “It’s a non-date.” I grin. “A hangout sesh, if you will.”

  Daphne laughs. “You’re so hip.”

  She holds my gaze, the cold winter wind not fazing either of us.

  “So…according to my attorney’s brief on the hangout rule book, kissing is allowed,” I say.

  “Is it, though?” she says playfully. “I may need to consult an attorney of my own before I can agree to that.”