Chapter 41

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

ANTOINE

T he bistro is all warm light and honeyed wood, cozy without being cramped. Celeste and I arrive first. The ma?tre d’ leads us to the table Celeste booked. She’s dressed impeccably, as always, in a cream sheath dress that exudes understated elegance. We sit down. I scan the entrance.

Celeste places a hand on my arm. “They’ll be here soon.”

Moments later, Laura and Mike walk in. My pulse ratchets up. Laura is radiant in a deep green wrap dress that hugs her figure just enough to be maddening. God, those curves! Her silky hair is loose, flowing over her shoulders. I remind myself to breathe.

She’s laughing softly at something Mike said. I know her natural laughter well enough to tell that this one is contrived.

Mike.

I hope my face doesn’t reflect the extent of the hostility I’m feeling toward him. It isn’t jealousy—I don’t think so. It’s just that he doesn’t deserve Laura.

Unfortunately, he didn’t get that memo. His smile is confident, and his gestures expansive, making his thin frame seem bigger. When they reach our table, Celeste and I stand up.

“Laura, Mike!” Celeste gushes. “So glad you could make it!”

I force a smile as I hold out my hand to Mike while Celeste air-kisses Laura. Twice, as is the custom in this part of France. We’re locals to Mike, who knows nothing about Mount Evor. Unless Laura broke her NDA and told him. But I bet she didn’t. She wouldn’t have signed it if she didn’t intend to honor it.

Mike shakes my hand, his grip too tight.

Trying to assert dominance? Insecure much?

I turn to Laura. “It’s good to see you.”

Her name is at the tip of my tongue, but I can’t say it aloud. No idea why.

Our eyes meet. For a second, everything else is blurred. We stare at each other with a rude, unvarnished intensity that makes Mike shift and Laura clear her throat. There’s a spark of defiance in Laura’s eyes. It’s not even a spark, it’s a forest fire. She dares me to regret her, to feel something.

And, damn it, I do.

Happy now?

“Antoine,” she says evenly. “You’re looking well.”

“You too.”

We sit down again, Celeste and I on one side, Laura and Mike on the other. I notice Laura smoothing her dress and hair. It’s a small, nervous gesture I remember from before.

Good—I’m not the only one dealing with unsolicited emotions.

The waiter brings the menus. While Celeste and Mike study theirs, I find myself watching Laura instead. I can tell she’s aware of my gaze. I should stop. This is making her uncomfortable. I really should stop staring at her?—

Her napkin slides to the floor. Without thinking, I reach for it.

“Here,” I place it back on the table beside her.

Our fingers brush. Our eyes lock again.

“Thanks.” She averts her gaze.

“My pleasure.”

Why is my voice suddenly hoarse?

The waiter returns to take our wine and food orders.

When he’s gone, Celeste clears her throat. “So, Mike, tell us more about your music.”

More?

He launches into a rehearsed spiel about his creative process, upcoming projects and vision.

“And, of course,” he concludes, shooting Celeste a grateful look, “I’m thrilled about the possibility of working on a soundtrack for Royal Riviera Studios.”

Come again?

My mind quickly connects the dots. That’s how Celeste got Laura to agree to this dinner—by dangling a soundtrack carrot in front of Mike! I wonder if she approached Laura first, or if she reached out to Mike directly with a proposal printed on her studio’s letterhead?

“When I received Celeste’s incredibly supportive letter,” he says. “I was stoked.”

I guess that answers that question.

Mike carries on, “I said to Laura, ‘Mark my words, this is going to be my band’s breakthrough.’ Didn’t I, babe?”

She’s no “babe’”to you. My fists clench involuntarily.

Ashamed of my caveman reaction, I turn to Celeste. She’s smiling, no doubt pleased with how well her plan has worked out so far.

Our drinks and appetizers arrive. Laura reaches for her glass of wine just as I move to pour her some water. Her hand grazes mine. It’s a brief touch, but my skin tingles worse than after the napkin incident.

What the fuck?

Fearing that my voice will betray me again, I swallow the “sorry,” pour the water and sit back. My peripheral vision catches Celeste’s eyes flicking to me. There’s a piercing quality to her usually benevolent gaze.

She turns to Laura. “What was it like being on Wed at First Sight ? Antoine doesn’t talk about it, but I’m terribly curious.”

“Did you watch it?” Laura asks.

“Some of it.”

Did she watch me flirt with Laura? Dance with her? Kiss her?

I’m shocked that the questions never occurred to me before.

“It was unsettling to have cameras film almost everything you say and do,” Laura says cautiously.

Celeste cocks her head. “Anything positive about the experience?”

I itch to tell her to drop the subject, but I want to hear Laura’s answer even more.

“It was scary at first,” she says.

“In what way?” Celeste presses.

Laura runs a hand through her hair. “Like when you realize you’ve made a terrible mistake, but it’s too late to back out. The cameras are rolling, and you must play your part.”

“It was all my fault.” Mike takes Laura’s hand. “You did it to get back at me for asking for a break. I can only imagine how you felt when you realized you’d punished yourself by trying to punish me.”

Laura pulls her hand away to pick up her glass and drink some wine. It’s her left hand, which is significant because she’s radically right-handed.

“And then?” Celeste asks.

Laura sighs. “And then it was fun. Until it wasn’t. At the end, it sucked. I felt like a loser, a pea-brained cow that never learns.”

The stark honesty of her reply hits me like a sucker punch. I know that it’s as much an indictment of me as it is of her. But it’s not the implicit accusation, which I fully deserve, that has me reeling.

“You’re the opposite of a loser,” I blurt out. “You’re wonderful in every way!”

Celeste stiffens next me. I regret my lack of restraint at once. Luckily, Mike, eager to steer the conversation in his direction, asks Celeste to tell him more about the film project she wants him to work on. She replies that it’s a contemporary drama set in Orléans.

They talk about it for the next twenty minutes. Mike’s questions seem just as inexhaustible as his excitement. Laura says nothing. Neither do I, grateful for the break. In the middle of the main course, I catch myself mirroring her movements, down to matching her pace when cutting into my steak. I set my fork and knife down and deliberately skip several beats to break the spell.

When the desserts arrive, Celeste ignores Mike’s next question and turns to Laura. “How did you two reconnect? There must be a great story there.”

Laura takes her time chewing the first spoonful of her tarte tatin.

By the time she opens her mouth to answer, Mike beats her to it, “Oh, it’s a story as old as time. I begged, I groveled, I wrote a song. Finally, she gave me a second chance.”

“Beautiful,” Celeste says.

“There’s a twist to the story, though.” Mike looks at Laura. “We’re taking things real slow this time. Eh, babe?”

She doesn’t answer.

He winks theatrically. “I think Laura wants me to work for it, because it’s very un-Laura-like to hold back.”

I hate that I agree with him. But he’s right, so I have no choice. Laura doesn’t do things halfway.

“That’s admirable,” Celeste says flatly.

I smother a half smile. She doesn’t have the acting skills of her brother to hide the disappointment in her tone.

Mike laughs. “It’s killing me, but she’s worth it.”

Laura doesn’t react to that, either, her focus fully on her cake. The conversation stalls, then drifts to the movie studio in Cannes, the Riviera versus Paris, the weather. The evening winds down. Outside the bistro, we exchange the customary pleasantries. And then Laura and Mike head to the Métro station, and Celeste and I to the parking garage.

“You’re nowhere near over Laura,” Celeste says as we drive out into the Parisian night.

The remark blindsides me. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Not at all. The way you look at her, the way you?—”

I interrupt her, “It’s the guilt, like you said.”

“I think it’s much more, Antoine.” Her eyes settling on something distant, she adds, “I should have trusted my instincts.”

“About what?”

The headlights cut through the darkened streets, and the soft hum of the engine fills the silence between us.

She shifts her gaze to me. “You and Laura.”

“There’s no me and Laura.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?”

I slow down for the red light ahead. “It’s the truth.”

“When I watched you two on TV”—she smiles ruefully—“your affinity was obvious, but I convinced myself you were acting.”

“I was.” At least, the first day or two.

“I told myself you were pretending to like her to ensure the success of your mission.” Her smile becomes bitter. “For prince and country!”

“Celeste…” I have no idea what to say next.

The light turns green, and I step on the gas. The weight of her words settles in the car. As we drive through the city, I steal a look at her. She seems so miserable in the glow of the passing streetlights that I want to hit myself.

“You’re overthinking this,” I say.

“Am I?” She angles her body toward me. “Will you swear to God you were faking it?”

I go for a cheap dodge. “Only women can ‘fake it.’”

“Come on,” she insists. “Swear it wasn’t real!”

Instead of replying, I focus on the road ahead. Seconds pass. Paris glimmers outside the windows.

Celeste turns away from me and sinks deep into her seat.

Depeche Mode’s crappy rhyme—a great song, though—floats into my head:

Words are very

Unnecessary.

The song haunts me all night, keeping sleep out of reach. Celeste and I stay at Le Meurice, as planned.

But in separate rooms.

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