Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
LAURA
T he sales assistant hands me the receipt. Smoothing my brand-new evening gown, I glance at the clutch bag on the boutique’s immaculate counter. It’s as pretty as it is impractical. While the gown is worth every yuan Antoine withdrew for me, I only bought this overpriced item because there’s no time to look for a deal.
I toss my backpack onto the counter and start transferring my essentials. Lipstick, wallet, phone… The clerk looks appalled as I unceremoniously shove as much of my stuff as I can into the clutch. I’d shocked her already when I said I was keeping the dress and the heels on. This just adds insult to injury.
Small wonder she “forgets” to give me a custom paper bag to put my old clothes in! I shove them into my backpack and head to the exit.
Antoine’s suggestion to buy the evening outfits, put them on and go straight to the gala dinner made perfect sense when he laid it out. We’d risk being late if we stopped at the hotel first. But now that I’m standing here wondering where to stash my old things, Antoine’s plan seems a lot less sensible. My predicament reminds me of a makeover show I used to watch, where a contestant freaked out when she was told to burn her “before” outfit.
Oh, that’s rich, Laura! It takes some nerve for a reality TV bride to laugh at a public makeover guinea pig. The makeover folks don’t marry total strangers.
I step out of the boutique into the evening air, which is cooler now than when we landed. As I scan the sidewalk for Antoine, a gentleman emerges from a menswear shop across the street and waves before calling my name. For a split second, I wonder why. Then my brain catches up. It’s Antoine. And he’s transformed.
Ha, speaking of makeovers!
He’s wearing a midnight black tuxedo, with fine fabric and sharp, clean lines that scream impeccable taste backed by wealth. I’d swear the tux was bespoke if such a feat of couture wasn’t physically impossible in the half hour he spent in the shop. The shirt underneath is perfectly crisp. The bow tie is flawless. A pair of cufflinks gleam discreetly on his wrists—small onyx squares framed in what looks like white gold. Patent leather shoes, lustrous enough to reflect the Shanghai skyline, complete the look.
My throat goes dry.
I’ve seen Antoine in different outfits over the past two weeks, but they’ve all been variations of the same combo: flashy sneakers, torn jeans, and a red or black stretch shirt, usually short sleeved to display his tattoos. However, this man is a whole other Antoine. Walking toward me is a magnificent male specimen who looks like he just stepped out of a men’s lifestyle magazine. Even his thick, overgrown hair, which usually covers half of his face, is now neatly parted and tucked behind his ears à la Brad Pitt in his prime.
“You’re staring,” Antoine says stopping next to me, his voice amused.
I snap my mouth shut. “You look…”
“Hot?” He gives me a cocky smile, but there’s a question in his eyes, like he’s not sure if I really like what I see.
“Devastatingly so,” I blurt with an honesty that startles me.
“That’s a relief.” He grins from ear to ear. “I was afraid you’d hate this look.”
“Are you crazy? How can any heterosexual woman with a pulse hate it?”
He frowns. “But your type of guy… The chill vibe, the rebel… Isn’t that what you’re into?”
Am I? That’s what Mike looks like. And the boyfriend I had before him, too. But am I still into it? Or have I grown out of it?
Antoine looks me over. “Anyway, enough about me. You, Laura Yang, you rock that outfit!”
The way his eyes take in my dress, caressing the curves wrapped in silky material, makes the back of my neck tingle.
“Emerald green suits you,” he says. “And the fit is exquisite. You look stunning, Laura.”
My cheeks heat up. “Thank you. And thanks for paying for it.”
“It was a pleasure.”
I point my clutch at his chest, “Remind me why you were hiding this version of yourself?”
“It was my childhood dream to have my own Pretty Woman moment,” he jokes.
We both laugh.
“OK,” Antoine says. “We should get rid of the evidence.”
For a second, I’m not sure what he means, until he gestures to the backpack in my hands, and the shopping bag in his.
“Can’t we take them to the gala?”
“Afraid not.”
“All right,” I mutter. “Give me a sec.”
I open my backpack to make sure I haven’t left anything valuable in it. Let’s see—my T-shirt, jeans, sneakers, cap, cheap sunglasses… As I rummage through my stuff, I’m hyperaware of Antoine’s proximity. He looks too good, smells too good. This new and improved edition of him changes something between us. It makes me giddy with pride as I anticipate walking on his arm. But it also stirs up my insecurity.
I close the backpack.
He reaches for it. “Here, let me.”
I hand it over. Without hesitation, he tosses it into a nearby trash can. When the shopping bag containing his own discarded clothes follows down the same path, he brushes his hands together like he’d touched something dirty. Good riddance is what his deeply satisfied expression screams as he turns to me.
“No second thoughts, huh?” I tease. “I thought you loved those torn jeans.”
He dodges my observation by adding, “We’ll buy some casual clothes tomorrow morning, before we fly back to Chengdu.”
“Sure,” I mutter.
Just in case it wasn’t clear, money is not an issue for Monsieur Bellay.
He offers his arm. “Shall we?”
I slip my hand through it, as we head to the taxi stand. In the dusk, city lights shimmer around us, and I catch myself overcome by the same fuzzy feeling I had when Antoine and I danced salsa in Sardinia, or when we strolled through the winding streets of Moulindor, or when we cooked together in Paris… It scares me. But it’s also exhilarating.
Near the taxi stand, we cross paths with a group of four men. They are some big dudes, their muscles practically bursting out of their business jackets. Three of them are white Caucasian and one looks more Middle Eastern. None are Chinese. They glance at Antoine like they know him. He gives them the tiniest of nods.
What was that?
“Did you just acknowledge those guys?” I ask as he opens the cab door for me.
“What guys?” he inquires, all innocent.
“The four bouncer types.”
“Please call them SWAT types,” he corrects me. “And no, I didn’t greet them. I’ve never seen them before in my life.”