Chapter 42
I hear voices. Music. Yelling.
Am I dead?
Is this Mardi Gras?
My eyes blink open and I see Sadie’s worried face, which is spinning around, refusing to stay in place. “Amelie. Amelie. Wake up.”
I want to go home.
It’s the deep longing that triggers my memory. All of it comes flooding back to me.
I’m in New York. I left him. I have no home.
My eyes close again and I feel the warm line of a tear.
I wish my daddy had been a better man. I wish he hadn’t been so sad and so far gone.
I wish Dallas Wilder hadn’t lied to me. He seemed different. He seemed good. Strong. And so beautiful. He seemed so true to his word.
He really didn’t come across as the devil incarnate.
I wish I didn’t love him so much.
God, I’m so bad at reading people. Once again I’ve been fooled, trying to trust when I should know better by now.
“Amelie, open your eyes.”
I don’t want to. But the ground is hard and there are people gathered around me, staring down at me.
I let them help me up. The room is still spinning, but less so now.
Sadie and some other people guide me to the booth.
I slide into it gratefully, leaning against the vinyl cushioned seats.
At least the music isn’t so loud now, like the DJ might be taking a break.
Someone hands me some ice wrapped in paper towel and I hold it to the back of my head, where there’s a throbbing pain.
My fingers touch the place and there’s a bump there.
When I draw my hand away, my fingers are lightly smeared with blood.
Shit.
There’s a space behind my head that the ice pack fits into without me having to hold it. I lean back against the coolness and it feels good.
I notice then that there are cops outside the door. I can see the red flashing lights and some big burly men in uniform. Saskia and her friends are talking to some of them. A couple of the cops are holding another man who’s wearing a sleeveless black shirt and who looks like he might be handcuffed.
It’s the man from the dance floor.
“There were a lot of witnesses,” Sadie says. “That guy just got arrested for assault. He pushed you hard, Ami. Are you feeling any better? I think you need to see a doctor.”
“I’m all right.” We both know I can’t afford a doctor. But it scares me. If there is a baby … is it okay?
“Are you sure, Ami? I think I should call an ambulance.”
“No. Don’t you dare. I don’t need one. I’m fine. It’s just a bump.” It is just a bump. I’m already feeling a little better.
My hand rests lightly on my stomach. Please be okay.
Because I think you might be there. I just get this feeling you’ve already started.
My other hand slides into the pocket of my jacket and my fingers curl around it: the black credit card.
Actually I can afford a doctor. I just need to be strategic about how and when I deploy this bad boy. Because I can only do it once.
Maybe I should go to the Bahamas. It sounds nice. The water in the photos always looks so blue. I could just hang out on the beach, paint pictures and disappear. I’ve never been to a beach.
Or Paris. I had a grandmother from Paris. And some other relatives on my mother’s side. Maybe I have some distant second cousin somewhere. I could see the sights.
An errant echo of a memory surfaces. I’m going to fly you to Paris and I’m going to take you up to the top of the Eiffel Tower and get down on one knee and I’m going to ask you to be my wife and have my six babies and live happily ever after with me while we build a life together out of every single one of those wildest dreams.
Goddamn you, Dallas Wilder. I knew you were too good to be true.
For a second I wonder if I hit my head harder than I thought because, speak of the devil, he materializes out of thin air in that exact second. There. At the door. By the swarm of cops and bouncers. And now I actually am getting concerned because there are three of him.
But then I realize each one of him is dressed differently.
One of him is taller and sort of devastatingly handsome, as always, wearing that same suit he was wearing earlier but his tie is gone now and his shirt is open, showing some of that ink I used to trace my fingers over.
One of the other ones has darker hair and is wearing an outfit that’s vaguely cowboy-ish, like he recently spent time at the ranch in Montana.
The third one’s hair is a shade lighter and he’s wearing some kind of race car driver leather jacket that looks expensive. He’s almost familiar.
He is familiar. He’s that movie star.
Holy shit.
It is Dallas. And two of his brothers.
The brothers are very good-looking, but to me the original version is sort of next level beautiful.
It hurts my heart to see him. It breaks my heart, that’s what it does.
The same heart I thought was permanently broken but it turns out Dallas Wilder started to actually fucking fix those broken pieces before shattering them all over again.
I hate him.
I don’t want to see him.
At first I don’t realize that I just said those words out loud. But Sadie turns. By the time she’s able to scramble out of the booth and confront him, the three of them are only a few feet from our table.
Dallas’s gaze holds mine and there’s so much worry and love—and crazy, wild relief—that I hate him all over again, more than I ever have. You missed your calling, Wilder. You should have followed in your mother’s footsteps. You’re a natural.
Sadie, bless her soul, acts as my gatekeeper. All three Wilders are huge, powerful-looking men but none of them are getting past my bestie without a fight, even though she’s at least a foot shorter than they are and probably weighs around half of one of them.
“Amelie doesn’t want to see you and she doesn’t want to talk to you, Dallas. You need to leave.”
“She’s going to want to hear what I have to say.” Dallas isn’t looking at Sadie when he says it. He’s only looking at me. And I can already tell by that steady, commanding tone to his voice that he has no intention of leaving.
“You need to stop it with all this toxic masculinity right now!” My girl is riled. “You can’t control her. You’re a prick and a liar! You need to leave her alone.”
“Let me talk to her, Sadie. There’s been a misunderstanding. Let me explain. To both of you, so you can see for yourself.”
“No. You’ve hurt her enough already.” At that exact moment, Sadie’s irate glare slides from Dallas to the brother on his left. And that’s the exact moment she realizes who he is. She happens to be a huge fan. Like, a rabid fan. “Oh my god. Apollo Wilder?”
Apollo Wilder grins down at Sadie and I can’t blame her for basically melting into a puddle on the floor. She’s only human, after all.
Dallas uses her open-mouthed distraction to ease past her. He sits down next to me—not touching me, which is good because I’d move away from him and my head is throbbing.
Sadie, to her credit, corrals her infatuation and rushes over to me as soon as she realizes her fangirl glitch. The brothers join us and now we’re all jammed into the booth together, with the two of us trapped between these big, hulking men.
Dallas pulls a wrinkled stack of stapled papers out of his pocket and places them—with emphasis—onto the table in front of me. “Amelie, Sadie, meet Boone and Apollo.”
Both brothers are watching me, then Dallas, with rapt interest. “Absolutely charmed,” the one who must be Boone says, grinning at me.
“H-hi,” I barely manage. I’m too distracted by the papers. It’s the evidence. The proof that he’s not who he said he was, staring me directly in the face.
Name of Purchaser: Dallas J. Wilder
Name of Establishment: The Hotel Thibodeaux
Bourbon Street
The French Quarter
New Orleans
“I already saw it. And I don’t know why you’d want to show it to me again. Let me out.” I want to move but I would have to crawl over both Dallas and Boone to make my escape. And I’m still feeling woozy.
When I don’t reach for the papers, Dallas flips to the second page, sliding it closer so I can see it clearly.
“It’s yours, Amelie. Not mine. I get why you would jump to conclusions, but your conclusions were completely wrong.
Yes, I’m listed as the purchaser. But I’m not the owner.
One percent is in my name so I can deal with the paperwork and act as a trustee. You own it. Free and clear.”
I’m trying to listen and read at the same time but my vision still feels off and what he’s telling me is having trouble absorbing.
“What?” Sadie’s shock is mildly buttered up by the fact that Apollo Wilder is now sitting right next to her, close to her, reading over her shoulder like they’re working on a team project together.
She reads aloud: “Name of Owners: Amelie S. Thibodeaux, ninety-nine percent. Dallas J. Wilder, one percent. Cash payment in full.” She looks at me.
Then she looks at Apollo. Then she looks at Dallas. “Is this for real?”
“Legal, binding and signed on the dotted line.” The deep, graveled edge to Dallas’s voice brings back a flood of memories.
Of him growling my name as we came so hard together.
Of him whispering sweet and dirty words as he fed me promises and took me to the heights of pleasure I still haven’t recovered from.
I’ll never recover. The reminders, along with the words he’s saying, are making my head spin again.
“You mean … Amelie owns her hotel?” Sadie splutters.
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Dallas confirms.
“But … how?” I hear myself murmur. It was such a long, agonizing, drawn-out process.
“One thing about Dallas is he knows how to get shit done,” Boone offers.
“And my cut-throat brigade of lawyers also know how to get shit done,” Dallas adds. “Everyone has a price. Including that asshole in Houston.”
“But … when?”
“The sale of the hotel was finalized on Wednesday,” Dallas says. “A few of the other details were finalized yesterday. I wanted to make sure everything was in place before I told you about it.”
“You were wrong, by the way,” Apollo bumps his shoulder against Sadie’s playfully and she practically swoons. “About the second part, at least.”
“Second part of what?”
“He can definitely be a prick,” Apollo says.
“He really can.” Boone grins at Dallas.
“But he’s not a liar,” Apollo finishes.
“Dallas has never lied in his life,” Boone seconds. “I can’t think of a single time.”
“Me either. Our boy is too honest sometimes. That big brain of his is incapable of anything but the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”
“So help us God.” Boone and Apollo hold their hands to their hearts.
We’re all quiet for a few seconds as this vow floats reverently and then settles.
Once it does, Dallas turns to the next page.
“You also own the White Swan. We’ll be competing with ourselves to a degree, but each one has its own style and flavor so I think it’ll work.
Unless you want to combine them into one, but that’ll be up to you to decide.
And you own the two buildings in between the Hotel Thibodeaux and the White Swan too. For a residence.”
“A what?” My brain is short-circuiting.
“Our house.” Dallas’s gaze is fixed on mine.
“One of our houses. We’ll divide our time.
You can do anything you want to it. We’ll have some plans drawn up and you can work with the design teams to build your dream home.
It’ll be one of our smaller homes but I think we can turn it into the best one of all.
” There’s the faintest hint of a smile behind his eyes as he watches my stunned reaction gently. “What do you think, Amelie Thibodeaux?”
I think I might love you.
“Holy shit,” Sadie gasps my exact sentiment.
“So … you weren’t lying … about any of it?” My question almost feels redundant after Dallas’s brothers’ descriptions of his undying honesty. But, still, I have to ask it. I’ve been fooled so many times before by earnest assurances that turned out to be bald-faced lies.
“I’ve never lied to you, Amelie,” Dallas says.
“Or anyone else. But especially you.” He seems almost hurt by my refusal to blindly believe him, just because he has legal contracts …
and family members vouching for him … and emotion-filled eyes that couldn’t look more sincere if he was competing for Best Actor. “And I never will.”
“Amen,” says Apollo dramatically, and we all look at him for a few seconds.
But then Dallas turns yet another page. “I’ve attached two hundred million to the project for taxes, compliance, upgrades, architects, designers, staff, and so on. We can always add more if we need it. We’ll want that chef back from Paris for the restaurant. What did you say his name was?”
“Marcel.” Maybe I’m dreaming. Maybe this is a movie set of a film starring Apollo Wilder that I’ve stumbled onto. This can’t be real.
But Dallas still isn’t finished. “I wanted it to be a surprise. But I’ve learned the hard way, Boo: no more surprises.
I should have just told you what I was working on all along, but I wanted to make sure it was going to go through before putting you through any uncertainty.
I wanted to present it to you as a done deal.
It literally all came together yesterday.
And I was going to tell you tonight. Oh, and all of it has been placed in a trust. It’s called Thibodeaux Holdings. So you can never lose it.”