“It’s temporary,” she says. “And it’s only because of your generosity.”
“I guess I should be flattered you didn’t call it charity, for once.”
“I’m trying to mind my manners,” she says. “And I don’t know if I’m doing a good job.”
I reach out and put my hand on her knee, feeling her warm skin beneath my palm, conscious of how close we’re still sitting with each other, her legs up on my thighs, exuding a familiarity that probably shouldn’t exist yet. “You’re doing a good job. You’re being honest. We all need honest people in our lives, otherwise we’re going to keep on making the same mistakes. And whether you think the bags are overpriced or not—even with the labor and materials that go into them—we could definitely be more progressive. But I also see great value in holding on to the past. It keeps us accountable. Sure, maybe my uncle would be happier if we could go online and start cutting corners to turn a greater profit, but I admire my father for sticking to his guns.”
And now I think I’ve said too much. I can’t remember the last time I really opened up about my family or the business, even for a minute. My family is so complex and layered as it is, it’s like opening a can of worms, and that’s a lid that needs to be permanently sealed.
I clear my throat. “But I don’t want to bore you with my business. How about we talk about lunch instead?”
“Honestly, it’s not boring at all,” she says, just as her stomach erupts into a loud growl.
I laugh, finding it particularly cute how embarrassed she seems by it. “I think your stomach would beg to differ.”
“I thought I ate too much at breakfast, but I guess I was wrong.”
“Well, having an appetite is a good sign. Would you like to go into Cannes for dinner? Antibes? We could also eat at the restaurant here or order room service.”
“Aren’t I supposed to stay off my feet?”
“I can assure you, you won’t be walking anywhere. We could even have lunch on the boat.”
“Of course you have a boat,” she says dryly, but she’s smiling. And the more she’s smiling, the more I find myself wanting to keep that smile going, no matter what it takes. Don’t get me wrong, I always show a woman a good time, something to be remembered, but I can’t recall the last time I even had the urge to pull out all the stops like this. The funny thing is, it takes almost nothing to impress Sadie.
Actually, that’s the wrong way of looking at it. It’s not that she’s easy to impress, more that the things that impress her come from a different, more sincere kind of place.
Once again, a challenge.
But as much as Sadie is a challenge to me, when it comes to lunch, she doesn’t put up that much of a fight. She thinks she’s terribly underdressed for being seen in public, but even though she’s wrong, I can tell the idea makes her uncomfortable. So we decide to order in room service for lunch, and I have the chef craft her something off the menu, anything her heart desires.
Her heart’s desire is a simple American hamburger, which she scarfs down in a second. Sure, it was made with Wagyu beef, but I don’t need to tell her that. We follow with more champagne, this time mixed with cassis liqueur to make Kir Royales, and soon we are stuffed and tipsy and feeling pretty good.
At least I am. It’s nice to have a day where I don’t have to worry about anything, where the future is only the horizon: a thin, faded line in the distance.
The horizon right now is a rich blue, wavering ever so slightly from the waves. We’re both leaning against the railing and staring down at the large lap pool perched by the rocky edge of the shore. The loungers are all occupied, some people splashing around in the water, some being served drinks by the waiters. It’s peak season and prime for people-watching.
But my attention is on the girl beside me, the breeze blowing back a few loose strands of hair from her ponytail, a reddish-gold gleam catching in the sun. The few freckles across her face seem even more pronounced, like she’s blossoming right in front of my eyes.
Her gaze is locked on a sailboat cutting smoothly across the water, the white sail stark against the vibrant Mediterranean blue, but then she swoops her eyes over to me. I’d never noticed how the blue of her irises matched the sea so well.
“What are you staring at?” she asks, her voice taking on a shy tone.
Once again, I know I’m probably making her uncomfortable, but I can’t seem to help myself. “Your eyes. They’re marine blue. Same as the sea.”
She smiles, the color of her cheeks deepening as she averts her eyes. “You know, when I was doing research on you, it wasn’t the only thing I was Googling.”
“Oh?”
“I learned what lapin means.”
I should have figured this would happen. To her credit, though, she doesn’t look mad. Just amused.
“I can explain,” I tell her.
She laughs. “You’d better explain why I look like a rabbit.”
“You don’t look like a rabbit,” I tell her, reaching out briefly to touch her arm, her skin seeming to grow hot under my touch. “It’s just—”
Her hands fly to her ears. “Yeah, my ears. I know they stick out. Believe me, when I was a tween I was called ‘Arwen’ by everyone in my class.”
“Arwen was beautiful,” I point out.
“Yeah, when she’s played by Liv Tyler. Trust me, no one thought they were being complimentary when they said I looked like an elf.”
I should have figured this was a sensitive subject. “It will probably sound weird if I explain, but just trust me when I say it’s a compliment.”
She eyes me for a moment, her gaze narrowing before she shrugs. “I guess I have to take your word for it. The French sure have a weird way of phrasing things.”
“Don’t blame the French. Just blame me. I’m not exactly up to the country’s standard when it comes to romanticisms.”
“You’d think you would have had enough practice by now,” she says lightly.
“You’d think,” I tell her. “But perhaps we need to even the playing field, just a little. You seem to know so much about me, but I, well, I know practically nothing about you.”
“There really isn’t much to say,” she says, trying to brush a strand of hair out of her eyes.
I reach out and tuck the strand behind her ear. To my surprise, she doesn’t flinch at my touch this time. “Everyone has a story. I bet yours is far more unique and interesting than you think. Tell me about where you grew up.”
She grimaces, scrunching up her nose. “It’s nowhere you would have heard of.”
“Tell me anyway.”
She lets out a long breath of air. “Okay. Well, I was born in a place called Wenatchee in Washington State. It’s like the interior of the state, so not close to Seattle at all. It’s very dry and desertlike, but there are some nice lakes around, and we’re famous for our apples.”
“Sounds very nice.”
“It’s okay. I’m painting you a nicer picture than it is.”
“And what did your parents do? Grow apples?”
She laughs. “That would have been nice. No, my father was a bank manager; my mother was a waitress. They didn’t make a lot, so we lived in a trailer park. But it was a nice trailer park, at least. I had my own room, so I was happy . . .” She trails off, looking the opposite of happy.
“Any siblings?”
“No.”
“Are your parents still together?”
She shakes her head, looking down at the people by the pool in a rather blank way. “My dad left when I was young. Don’t know where he is now. Don’t care.”
I know better than to ask any more about him.
“So I take it you’re close with your mother?”
“Yeah,” she says, and her voice goes quiet.
“Was she worried about you coming over here? Traveling?”
“A little. I think . . . I think she misses having me around. I live with her in Seattle, near the university. I know she’s extra wo
rried now that I’m alone.”
“You mean you’re no longer with your boyfriend. What was his name again? Dom?”
“Tom,” she says quickly and shivers, as if even saying his name is too much. “She liked him enough, but it gave her peace of mind to know that he was looking after me. Well, you know what I mean.”
“Will you tell her about me?”
She raises her brows. “About you? And what am I supposed to say about you?”
“That you met a very handsome French man who promised to take care of all your needs.”
She slowly shakes her head, a smile spreading across her face. “You are unbelievable.”
I lean in close to her, breathing in her sweet vanilla scent mixed with the fresh minerals of the sea. “Lapin, you have no idea,” I say softly into her ear.
CHAPTER FIVE
SADIE
“So tell me all about Spain,” my mother says. “How is Barcelona? Or are you in Madrid? It’s hard to keep track.”
“I’m in Barcelona,” I tell her. I hate lying to my mom, but there’s no way around it right now. If I were to tell her the truth about what happened to me, it would only make her worry, and she’s so stressed out as it is, that’s the last thing she needs. Best to just let her think everything is fine.
There’s a long pause over the line. “Are you okay?” she asks.
I clear my throat and try to sound more chipper. “Oh, yes. For sure. Just a bit tired from all the traveling, you know.”
Another lie. I’m a bit hungover, plus groggy from all the painkillers. Yesterday I drank a little too much during the day with Olivier, which resulted in me going to bed around dinnertime. In fact, I think I was nodding off just as he was about to order in food, and I have vague memories of him bringing me to the bed, after which he left, and I got under the covers and passed out.
I’ve been nothing but a class act with this guy.
“I knew I should have waited another hour or so to call,” she says. “I just hadn’t talked to you in so long, and you’d said it was impossible to sleep late in a hostel anyway.”
“No, you’re right. I’m glad you called. So how was work?”
My mom would have just come off her late shift at the diner, her job at the moment. Normally, my mother goes through jobs every few months, unable to hold one down for long, thanks to her constant battle with bipolar disorder, but it seems like this one has been good to her.
“It was all right,” she says with a sigh. “I had a tough go the other day . . .” She trails off, and I know she doesn’t want to tell me what happened. But at the same time, I know she will. She has no one else but me to confide in.
“And?” I prompt her.
“Well, the good news is that I still have a job.” She laughs nervously and then groans. I can picture her now, rubbing the heel of her hand into her forehead as if she could break through to her brain that way. “But, darling, I was in a bad way. I just couldn’t get out of bed. That black hole, that void, it had me, and I honestly didn’t think I’d ever get out of it.”
My heart squeezes. I know what she’s talking about. I’ve been in that void myself. But I know it’s nothing compared to what she feels and deals with on a daily basis.
I’m afraid to ask, but I do. “How many shifts did you miss?”
“Two,” she says after a beat. “But they were very understanding. In fact, Agnes who works here—I think I told you about her in an email I sent you—she’s very eager to take on any missed shifts. So if I ever have a hard time, I can always call her, and she’ll cover for me.”
I breathe out a sigh of relief. She’s never had this level of support before at her jobs. I know my mom tends to keep everyone at arm’s length, and for good reason, but maybe because I’ve been gone, she’s actually been able to branch out. She’s relied on me for so long for company and emotional support, and as much as I’ll never ever turn my back on my mother, it does take its toll on me. I’ve been shouldering her burdens for as long as I can remember, even before my father left us.
“I thought I saw Tom the other day,” she says, switching the subject in the most horrible way.
I groan out of habit, though I have to admit that ever since I met Olivier, Tom hasn’t been on my mind like usual.
“I was tempted to run him over,” my mother adds. “I’ll never forgive him for what he did to you.”
“Me neither. But it doesn’t matter.”
“He ruined your vacation, sweetie.”
I’m smiling, just a little. “It’s getting better. I promise.”
I stay on the phone for a few more minutes while my mom makes herself Sleepytime tea and gets ready for bed. Then I hang up and try to summon the energy to get myself out of my own bed.
It doesn’t help that it’s insanely comfortable, and lying here is like being held in the palm of heaven. Even my pounding head and the faint throbbing in my ankle seem to take a back seat in this bright-white room—clean and pure and luxurious all at once.
Now that I’m fully awake, my mind naturally goes to Olivier.
How can it not?
I mean, good Lord.
I don’t know if this is karma for having a pretty shitty childhood, or Tom dumping me, or what, but I know I should stop questioning it and start enjoying it. The man is just too unbelievable to be real, starting off with the Pretty Woman–style breakfast in bed, followed by day drinking bottles and bottles of his own champagne while lounging in the Mediterranean sunshine. The conversation flowed easily, as long as we weren’t talking about me, and there were numerous occasions when he reached out and touched me in some way. Every time his skin made contact with mine, I felt like we were connecting on some cellular level, like something deep inside me recognized something deep inside him.
But that’s all just crazy talk. I’m obviously smitten with the fact that he’s completely gorgeous, totally French, and obscenely rich and successful. Anything else is probably a product of my very active imagination. I mean, other than his touching my ankle, or my thigh, or pushing a strand of hair off my face, he’s made no real moves on me.
I thought he was going to. Especially when he got this heated look in his eyes more than once and leaned in just a little closer. Normally, I would freak out, and even though I was internally, I didn’t jerk out of the way or anything.
But, no. Either the man is a tease, or I’m picking up on the wrong signals.
Or maybe he’s a gentleman who doesn’t believe in going after injured young women, I remind myself.
It could be that. There’s no denying there’s chemistry between us; it’s just a matter of acting on it, and I sure as hell won’t be making any moves over here. Not when I can barely move to begin with.
And yet, as I manage to get out of bed, my body does feel less stiff and sore than it did yesterday. Maybe Olivier was right, and the champagne really was best for my stress levels. And what had he said about the sea? That it was good for my heart?
I carefully get up and see there’s an envelope underneath the door. I hobble over to it, too afraid to put any real weight on my ankle yet, and pick it up.
Scrawled in elegant handwriting on the hotel stationery is a note:
Mon Lapin,
I hope you were able to get some much-needed rest. I will be working for most of the day, so I hope you’ll feel free to entertain yourself. If you want food or drinks, please order to your heart’s desire. If you wish to go to the pool, to the restaurant, anywhere you like, please dial the concierge, and Marcel will be at your beck and call. I will be back for you at seven o’clock tonight for dinner. There are some dresses outside the door, in case you want to wear one for the occasion.
Olivier Dumont
Oh. My. God.
I open my door and peer outside. I gasp. There is a legit rolling rack outside the door with numerous garment bags hanging off it.
I manage to keep the door open and pull the rack inside the room. I quickly get to work unzipping the garment
bags and discovering each dress hidden inside. They’re all black—I suppose it’s the safest and most elegant choice—all in my size, and all with the Dumont label. My stomach flips, knowing each dress has to be worth at least $1,000.
Shit. He wants to take me out for dinner tonight, with my bungled-up ankle and lack of decorum? He might be able to fit me in a flattering and beautiful dress, but it might be akin to putting lipstick on a pig. Or at least designer clothing on a girl from a trailer park.
I carefully try on each one, trying to play the part of princess, even if just for a day. I eventually settle on a billowy lace number with a low-cut neckline that shows off my chest and flares out toward the knee. Bonus points for not having to wear a bra with it.
The biggest challenge is trying to occupy myself for the next ten hours or so. Luckily, the time passes easily. I order in a big enough breakfast, with copious amounts of coffee, so that I don’t need anything for lunch, then spend the afternoon lying by the private hot tub and getting some sun.
By the time seven o’clock rolls around, I’m slightly burned, light-headed, and nervous, but the dress looks great on me, and I’ve managed to make some faint waves in my hair so that it fans out on my shoulders. I haven’t bothered with makeup much while traveling, since it all seems to melt off my face, but I do what I can to make myself look fairly pretty and presentable.
If it’s pretty enough for Olivier Dumont, well, that remains to be seen. But fuck it. I can be insecure some other time. I’m going to take advantage of tonight—this once-in-a-lifetime, fairy-tale kind of date, this other life I’m living—and I’m going to believe I deserve every single minute of it.
Olivier is punctual. There’s a knock at the door at exactly seven o’clock, and it takes all my concentration to keep myself from freaking out.
I hobble over to the door, with my flip-flop on one foot and the bandage on the other, and open it.
Fuck me.
Olivier is standing there with a bouquet of pink and coral roses in his hand, but it’s the rest of him that takes my breath away.
Discretion Page 6
