Chapter 9 #2
Kat’s alarm sounds and she jumps in the chair, abandoning her spoon for her phone, just as the waiter passes by again, this time with a bottle of Pellegrino, for refills.
“She’ll take it to go,” I tell him as Kat leans away from the table, finger pressed to the opposite ear drum as she strains to hear whoever is on the other line.
“Sutton, don’t–” She twists, looking at me over her shoulder, mouthing, “work, sorry.”
I nod, and watch my daughter argue with my nephew about something Mercer Properties-related.
This life I’ve built–staying close to my brother and his kids, each of us building our businesses and brands in the same city, success, travel–it’s beautiful.
For all intents and purposes, and for anyone on the outside looking in, things are perfect.
This life is perfect.
And perfect lives need no disruptions or distractions, so when Kat hangs up on her cousin a moment later, I don’t veer the conversation back to Juliette, for all of our sakes.
Instead, we talk about the wedding for fifteen minutes until she has to go, taking all the bread on the table and her soup with her.
“Your check, Mr. Mercer,” the waiter says, slipping me the leather duo-fold containing the bill. I hand him my card without peeking inside.
“Thank you.” My eyes veer back to the door and after what feels like a lifetime in this restaurant, she appears.
In a pantsuit and v-cut blouse that reveals a bit of her cleavage, and high heels that make my mouth water, Juliette pushes through the door, her hair crowding her face as a gust of air rushes around her.
The host helps her close the door, and she steps inside, her hand falling to the camera bag at her side.
A smile curves my lips just watching her talk to the host, smoothing down her hair and righting her purse on her shoulder.
She explains to him she’s meeting me–I can see the words tumble from her full pink lips–and right when the host turns to scan the empty restaurant, she sees me.
There is absolutely no missing the crimson that floods her cheeks, but by the time she makes it to the table, it’s drained away, as if I imagined it.
I didn’t, though.
And my sneaking (hopeful) suspicions that perhaps Juliette Wilson has a crush on me come rushing back.
Don’t get me wrong, there have been many times in the distant past where I’d seen the signs.
Being a wealthy man in business opens the door to a lot of romantic and sexual advances–and I’m aware of what interest looks like in a beautiful woman.
I’ve felt the lingering glances, the hazy and somewhat disorienting staring, the hesitancy choosing me to sit by at events–all of it. I’ve seen it, but it’s ebbed and flowed over the years, so I’ve never focused on it. But now, I have to wonder, was all of that… something?
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she says, one hand braced on the bottom of her camera bag, clearly protecting what’s most important to her. I glance at the Rolex on my wrist and arch an eyebrow. “You’re two minutes early.”
She blots at her upper lip with the top of her hand, and pushes her hair off her shoulders, flustered from her rush here.
“Two minutes early to me is basically like being fifteen minutes late.” She winks.
“C’mon Mr. Mercer, you remember how I used to nearly breathe into a paper bag when your towncar would get stuck in traffic, when I thought Kat and I would be late for P.E. ”
I pull her chair out for her, and she eyes me quizzically, as if she’s unsure why she’d sit. “I remember those days,” I tell her, nodding toward the seat where Kat was not an hour ago. “And sit, sit so you can cool down for a moment before we get started.”
She hesitates, but ultimately sits, and the ends of her hair brush my thumbs as I grip her chair and push it in, nudging her closer to the table. A thrill runs down my spine at the soft swish of her hair against my flesh, and for a split second, I feel immensely guilty.
My daughter’s best friend. She’s half my age. And in a fucking relationship.
That last one should be the sticking point. Hell, any of the items on that list should be a sticking point. But the red that flooded her cheeks when she saw me… and the sudden onset of awareness I have when I’m around her… Should is not a word I care to focus on, at the moment.
Pouring her a glass of water, she takes one sip before diving into her camera bag, taking out a lens and attaching it to the body.
“You need another minute?” I ask, noticing she’s only just now caught her breath. And also, I find myself dying to buy another moment with her.
Juliette looks up, clipping the camera bag closed.
“No, I’m good. I’m excited to see the secret passage,” she says, peering around me, eyes skating up and down the interior wall.
She’s been to many other Velvet locations, so she knows to expect the secret door in an unexpected place, but even this one will surprise her.
One more sip of water and she’s blinking at me, pushing away from the table, eager and ready. I can’t help but chuckle at her enthusiasm. “You’re really looking forward to seeing this aren’t you?”
She volleys her head, a piece of honey hair spilling over her shoulder.
“Well, I am, I definitely am. And I’m really excited to see how it photographs, too.
” Her wide blue eyes hold mine for a moment, and in that moment, my chest squeezes.
What is the other side of Juliette like?
The side of her that is a lover in the dark, the part of her that gives herself with trust, the Juliette that only a man in her heart can know. I wonder.
“But,” I start, “because there is a but hanging off that sentence.” I know her, and sometimes it feels like a waste to know someone so beautiful and talented so well, only to have that knowledge be forced to stop, limited to a certain subset of who she is, just because of who we are.
I can’t know the other side of Juliette because of who she is in my life, and that, sometimes, just seems like bullshit.
She takes the lens cap off and stuffs it through the open keyhole of her blouse, into her bra, something she must do often because her face doesn’t register my surprise as I watch.
“But I feel bad,” she says, still peering around me to eye the wall.
I love that she’s not even close to looking in the right place yet.
“I’m taking up your time and I know you have better things to do. ”
I shrug. “I really don’t.”
Another rush of pink into her cheeks. “Still, I feel bad taking your time.”
“Don’t,” I reply. “I want to give you my time, Juliette. The passage is a great subject, and I can’t wait to see what you do with it.”
She blinks a few times, thick lashes fluttering, her mouth parting without words. Her brows pull together and she gives her head a few quick shakes. “That’s… a really nice thing to say,” she says slowly, and that's when it occurs to me that my compliment has unearthed her.
“I’m not just saying that,” I continue, Kat’s words replaying in my head about Juliette’s boyfriend and how he’s trying to squeeze the creativity out of her.
“I love your photographs, and the passage between Nineteen20 and Velvet is special. It’s part of what makes my business unique, and pairing your talent with my bar’s most incredible feature… excites me.”
Juliette blinks a few times, and I privately clench my teeth at this Harry asshole.
Asking a photographer to settle for corporate gigs is like asking a singer to be happy working opening sets at a bar.
When I had the idea for Velvet Whisper, I was so sure it was going to be something special and incredible, a hidden gem in a city that can be cold and unforgiving.
Something fun and unique. Had Geo not supported me, had he instead told me to alter my dream to something safer and more attainable, I’d have been devastated.
I’d have understood that he was coming from a place of looking out for me, but at night, when the lights were out and I’d be alone with my thoughts, the only thing I’d truly circle on is feeling like he didn’t believe in my talent and abilities, and that he’d guided me to something safer because he didn’t think I could do it.
That’s how Juliette feels. I’m sure.
She feels like he doesn’t believe in her raw gift because he’s constantly trying to get her to play it safe, trying to nuzzle her into a career she’s already outgrown. It’s frustrating, and not what I want for Juliette and her future.
I place my hand on her lower back and guide her through the restaurant, toward the main eating area where most guests are seated. I eat in the overflow, private area, but that’s not where the passage is.
I realize, watching her tuck chairs in and slip past tables, her golden hair swaying as she moves, full lips curved into a perpetual smile, it’s not my place to want anything for Juliette.
She isn’t my child, she’s my child’s best friend.
Best adult friend at that. I have no place in judging her boyfriend or her choice to be with him.
She’s got her reasons, and they are her own.
“Here,” I say, stepping aside to allow Juliette space. Together, we stand in front of a wall, a large, framed painting covering most of it. Above the painting, which is an original Léon Bakst, a painter from the turn of the century who specialized in art deco style, is a light. The light is off.
Shoving my hands in my pockets, I don’t look at the art or the light, but focus instead on Juliette.
She lowers her camera to a nearby table and stands directly in front of the painting, tilting her head to the side in silence.
Bringing her hands together behind her back, she stands that way for a few minutes, studying.
My heart races the longer I take in her form in front of my passage, the subtle narrowing of her waist and the expansive bloom of her hips, and Jesus help me, her full, beautiful ass.