Lord at First Sight (The Montevor Royals Saga #8)

Chapter 27

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

LAURA

A ntoine and I are sprawled on the sofa, the TV remote resting on the coffee table between us and the screen. After the sex in the kitchen, we washed off and did some grocery shopping to fill the fridge. Then we cooked and ate dinner together while the TV crew filmed our first steps in the minefield of happy domesticity.

It was a bizarre experience.

I cook well, and I enjoy it, while Antoine has barely mastered the basics. The gap in our skills made for some hilariously awkward moments that gratified the drama-hungry crew. Antoine, in an excellent mood, didn’t seem to mind. And I—I loved every second of that hour between the sink and the stove. How could I not? I was playing house with the man my body craves, and my heart is beginning to…

Do I dare to put it into words?

All I know is that this crazy caper, this foolhardy stint is going unexpectedly, almost suspiciously well for me. When was the last time I thought about Mike? Four days ago? Five? A week? My accidental husband surprises me again and again, in the best ways possible. What’s happening in my life now is too rare and precious to risk jinxing it.

After dinner, the TV crew left us in peace, not just for the rest of the day, but also for tomorrow.

We unpacked our stuff and settled on the couch to watch the latest Wed at First Sight episode.

The segment playing now covers our trip to Dordogne. I’m still not used to seeing myself on screen. It feels bizarre, like watching a stranger who looks and sounds like me but isn’t quite real. The show’s editors have done all they could to magnify the slightest hint of conflict there was. Even so, the segment is rather dull. Compared to the evening at my parents’ place, the editors had practically nothing to work with.

On screen, Antoine, Gigi, Henri and I are outside the burger place in the village. We’re debating whether to eat there or try the other restaurant. The fact that the final cut includes something so banal, shows how low on drama the whole thing was. I vaguely remember that moment. It felt like an eternity of back-and-forth about burgers versus pizza. But now, something new catches my attention.

A tourist approaches. Gigi, Antoine and I don’t notice him, too busy with our discussion. Henri turns around. The tourist asks him in English if he could translate something on the menu blackboard. The camera zooms in as Henri helps him out, speaking with a fancy British accent. Which reminds me how Antoine let slip that this was his default in English. Which means both Bellay brothers speak this way.

How come ?

Even more curious is how Henri’s accent—unlike the one Ross was faking in Friends —sounds natural and uncontrived. I’d say it’s genuine as the massive diamonds sparkling in Gigi’s ears.

My eyes flick to Antoine, but he’s focused on the screen, oblivious to my smirk. Before I can corner him, my phone vibrates on the coffee table. I glance at the screen.

Mike.

My stomach twists. I don’t pick up. Instead, I let it buzz until it stops. Thirty seconds later, the voicemail alert pings. I glance sideways to see if Antoine noticed, but he’s still engrossed in the show. On screen, we’re finishing our meal. Gigi says something witty, and the camera catches me laughing.

When the episode ends, Antoine stretches out and stands. “Wine?”

“Good idea!”

He heads to the kitchen.

My gaze shifts to my phone. The voicemail stares back at me like it’s daring me to listen. I lift the phone to my ear and press play. Mike’s beautiful timbre is familiar and smooth, but there’s an edge to his voice I don’t recognize… Desperation, maybe?

Laura… You’re probably ignoring me, and I get it. I deserve it.

He pauses, and I can hear him exhale sharply.

But… You only did that show to spite me, didn’t you? Well, congratulations. It worked.

I grip the phone tighter.

On the tour, I’ve been thinking a lot about us. About everything. This break was a mistake. I can see it clearly now. You’re the one for me, Laura! You always were.

His voice wavers, then steadies.

Please, can we meet? Just once. Let me explain. Hear me out. If you don’t want anything to do with me after that, I’ll back off. But I need to see you.

The message ends. I stare at the screen, tempted to replay it so I can make sense of what I just heard. But before I have time to do it, Antoine returns, carrying two glasses of chilled white wine. He hands me one and sits back down, looking relaxed, completely unaware that my world just shook a bit.

“It was a good episode,” he says. “We gave them nothing.”

I manage a faint smile. “I doubt the production thinks it was good.”

Should I tell him Mike called?

My heart is beating too fast. I take a sip of wine that does nothing to steady my nerves.

Antoine’s brow furrows as he looks at me. “Something wrong?”

“Nothing important,” I lie.

He studies me for a moment, then nods. I feel a pang of guilt, but what am I supposed to say? That my ex-boyfriend, the man I was crazy about as recently as two weeks ago, just poured his heart out in a voicemail? That he’s begging for another chance?

Antoine leans back and drinks his wine, looking… content. Meanwhile, my thoughts swirl around my head like snowflakes in a storm. I think about Mike and the unbelievable fact that he did exactly what I’d hoped he’d do. He groveled.

Do I still want him? Or is it too late?

Then my churning thoughts redirect to Antoine. He’s handsome and hot. Charismatic as fuck. And just as detached. Sex with him has been out-of-this-world good. But he’s hiding things from me, and I have no idea if I can trust him.

I lean back on the sofa and fix my gaze on Antoine. “So, tell me, where did you learn to sound like a British lord when you speak English?”

He blinks, caught off guard.

I keep charging, “And how come you were taught ballroom dancing in high school? What school did you attend, exactly?”

“That’s a story for another day,” he says, waving me off.

“You’re deflecting again.” I let out an exasperated sigh. “Antoine, do you realize how little I know about you? I haven’t even seen your apartment, or your tattoo parlor.”

He perks up. “Which reminds me! I’m going to take you there tomorrow.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Hmm.”

“By the way,” he says, pointing at my phone, “someone tried to reach you while we were watching the episode. Who was it?”

I hesitate for a split second. “My ex, Mike.”

“The wannabe rock star? What does he want?”

“Just to talk.”

“About what?” He scoffs. “He dumped you, remember? He doesn’t deserve your time.”

I choose my words carefully. “I won’t give him more than an hour. I could meet him in a public place?—”

“Laura,” Antoine cuts me off.

His voice is sharp though not unkind. He pauses to choose his words, and while he’s working on it, I catch myself hoping he’ll tell me that I’m a married woman now. Madame Bellay. His wife.

“You’re too much of a yes person,” he finally says. “Quit that. You can’t please everyone, and nor should you.”