Chapter 20 #2
I blinked up at him multiple times, as if I couldn’t process his words.
“Emilia, relax. You like the mantel, and you want to see it. I have business in Paris that I need to take care of. We’ll be back in no time, and you’ll have the statement piece you’ve been looking for.”
“I have the guys coming tomorrow to start cutting the drywall to add the arches,” I said.
He took a short beat to consider the dilemma. “I’ll have Brenner work from my house tomorrow. Is there anything else?”
No. No, there isn’t.
I was going to freaking Paris in the morning.
Paris, France.
A place that had been on my bucket list ever since my freshman year in college, when my professor had us choose a location that inspired our love of design.
I’d spent hours online researching, and Paris was the obvious choice, from the landscape and natural beauty to the history and architecture it offered.
“No. I’m texting Beatrice now,” I said, typing frantically into my phone, knowing she was going to freak out on my behalf.
She answered immediately, of course.
All the excited emojis.
Endless exclamation marks.
And she said she had it covered.
“Okay, I can do this. I need to pack. I need to check the weather. I need to email the owner of the antique store. My God, what if he isn’t open. What if we can’t get in. We don’t have a plan.” The words were coming out frantic, as I was fully spiraling now.
He walked back over to me, eyebrows cinched together as if I was the most confusing person on the planet and he was trying to figure me out.
I’m sorry, but most people wouldn’t just casually go to Paris on a whim.
It’s something you plan for months ahead of time.
“We have a plan. We’re going to Paris tomorrow. Trust me, the owner of the antique store will be thrilled to move an expensive piece. Just send them a message, and we’ll make it happen.”
“And what do we do with the mantel? Put it on a private plane like a passenger?” I laughed, and once I started, I couldn’t stop. My inner voice begged me to stop. But I continued laughing so hard that tears streamed down my face.
I was losing it.
Bridger’s lips formed a straight line, giving nothing away, per usual.
“We can have it packed and put on the plane, but a better idea would be to have it shipped. It probably weighs a ton, so shipping would be easier. It’s not that big of a deal, Emilia.
People purchase things from other countries all the time. ”
The alarm on his phone went off, and he moved to the oven and pulled out the pan he’d placed in there. It smelled like garlic and butter, and my stomach rumbled in response.
Had I even eaten anything since breakfast?
What time was it, anyway?
“Your stomach is growling. Sit down and eat some of my mother’s pasta. You’ll love it.”
“Are you always this bossy? ‘Eat pasta. Go to Paris. Sit down,’” I said in my deepest voice, trying not to laugh.
“Yes. I suggest you get used to it.” He set two plates down at the table, along with some silverware.
I groaned when I took the first bite. “Wow. She really is a spectacular cook.”
“She is.”
“You two have always been close, huh?” I asked. It was impossible to miss the way they adored one another when you were around them. I’d always noticed it. Maybe it was because my relationship with my mother was lacking in so many areas.
He was quiet for a few seconds after I asked the question, which made me wonder if it was too personal. But he asked me whatever the hell he wanted, so why did I have to hold back? And it wasn’t a difficult question. Obviously they were close. Anyone could see it.
“Yes.” He cleared his throat and reached for his beer bottle, taking a long pull. “Are you and your mother close?”
Oddly, we’d both asked questions that we already knew the answer to, and now I was the one feeling awkward.
“No. We aren’t particularly close. I don’t think she likes me very much.”
He gave me the slightest nod of understanding, but I decided to continue.
“My mom is a perfectionist. She doesn’t like the way I dress, the food I eat, the men I date, the profession I chose—one that I am now secretly doing because she won’t approve.” I shrugged as I reached for my fork. “I don’t expect you to understand. You have the perfect family.”
He finished chewing. “She doesn’t like the men you date? Who are you dating, Emilia?”
“That’s what you took from that whole statement?
She food shames me, career shames me, clothing shames me, but you want to know who I date?
And then you say it all broody with my name at the end, like I’m in trouble.
” My tone deepened once again as I tried to imitate his voice.
“‘Who are you dating, Emilia.’” My head tipped back in laughter, but he just stared at me like I had three heads.
“I think it’s all terrible. I’m just curious. Seeing as you’re working here, I want to make sure you aren’t sneaking any dudes into my home.”
I gasped. “You’re so full of it. You’re just curious. I’m obviously not sneaking any dudes in here. And for the record, I am not dating anyone. I was making a point that she doesn’t approve of anything I do.”
“Good to know.”
That’s it? “Good to know”?
Whatever. He was a frustrating man.
Sexy and beautiful and confusing as hell.
But I had bigger things to focus on tonight.
I was flying to Paris in the morning with the broody billionaire who continued to turn my life upside down.