30. Olivia
OLIVIA
I stepout of my private bathroom in my underwear after a luxurious shower that offered enough complimentary luxury products to have me smelling like a florist.
It’s too bad that the waterfall showerhead wasn’t enough to curb my annoyance with Remy.
He knew I’d need black-tie attire and didn’t tell me.
It also doesn’t help that I still harbor shell shock from him hauling me against him to growl a delicious threat in my ear. And the way he dared to act jealous toward the chef who happened to admire what Remy classifies as a mistake?
It’s plain dumb… in the most tinglingly intoxicating way.
I walk hunched over, towel-drying my hair, before flipping back upright once I reach the massive king-sized bed.
A garment bag is laid across the coverings with a folded piece of paper sitting on top. A garment bag and folded piece of paper that weren’t there before I got in the shower, along with a Jimmy Choo shoebox near the pillows.
Someone was in my room.
I glance toward the door, but it’s closed. In the exact same state I left it.
I rest my towel over my shoulders and grab the piece of paper.
I told you you’d find something to wear.
x Rem
My stomach fills with static.
I drop the paper and rush to snatch at the top of the bag to lower the zipper, exposing an intricately plaited black satin bodice with a strapless sweetheart neckline.
My breath catches at the beauty. “Holy shit.”
I wrap my arms delicately underneath the material, dragging out the billowing floor-length skirt.
“Oh, wow.”
It’s stunning and far too classy for someone like me.
I didn’t go to prom. Hell, I don’t even own a strapless bra. But God, it’s so pretty.
I wish I could call Allison and Ivy and tell them all about it. They’d freak. Then they’d squeal. Then they’d gush about how the guy who’d bought it for me deserved to be deep-throated, or bukkake-d, or some other equally random sexual experience that I’d have no goddamn idea how to fulfill… at least until they found out who he was.
My cell vibrates with a text message from my bedside table.
I hold the dress against my half-naked body as I circle the bed to pick it up.
Remy
We leave for an early dinner in an hour.
He doesn’t mention the dress. Just completely ignores yet another good deed.
I don’t get it.
Why does he do nice things and pretend they don’t exist?
I nibble my bottom lip, wanting to respond with gratitude. To tell him the dress is far too remarkable for someone who rarely steps foot in public. But all the gushing, grateful things I should say are smothered with the insurgent panic that I only have one hour to get myself into a state that will remotely do this phenomenal masterpiece justice.
So I drop my phone and flee to the bathroom, praying I don’t have a meltdown.
Fifty-five minutes later my nerves are still jangling as I grip the bedroom door handle, my confidence nonexistent as the perfectly fitted bodice clings to my naked breasts.
The whole gown feels entirely foreign.
But I’ve put in the work. I’ve styled my hair with two loose braids over the front of my head that join into a messy boho braid styled to sit across my left shoulder. My makeup is simplistic with mascara and a light smoky eyeshadow, one—because I didn’t bring my full makeup kit, but two—because I’m already nervous over the attention this dress will bring and don’t want to do anything that may increase it.
I’m such an imposter, especially after looking up the description of the Jimmy Choos from the product tag and finding out that they cost more than my monthly rent.
For almost an hour I’ve told myself I’m doing this for Dad… It’s only one night… A few hours max.
No matter what I tell myself, it doesn’t make it easier to twist the door handle and step into the hall, but I do it anyway, the bile in my stomach threatening to escape up my throat.
Chatter carries from the living room—my dad’s warm timbre, Lucy’s playful prattle.
But it’s Remy’s smooth, confident tone that tears strips from my already lacking composure.
I keep my head down as I reach the end of the hall and pause, dying a little inside when the house falls quiet.
I don’t need to glance up at them to determine they’re staring at me. My sixth sense of impending doom already tells me they are, along with Dad’s deeply indrawn breath.
I scrub my hands together, attempting to alleviate the palm sweat.
“Liv …” Dad murmurs, “you look …”
I chance a glance toward him on the sofa.
Big mistake.
He pushes to his feet in a tuxedo, blinking back tears through a bittersweet smile. “I wish your Mom was here to see you.”
My heart pangs, but I keep my gaze on him, deliberately not chancing eye contact with the other tux-clad man who stands, sucking the entire world into his vortex.
“That dress is amazing.” Lucy clasps a hand to her chest, the other reaching out to steady my father.
“Thank you.” I blush, glancing nervously toward the far hall leading to the front door. “Are we ready to leave?”
“We sure are.” Dad leads the way toward the entry, Lucy holding pace at his side.
I can’t move. Especially not when Remy’s massive frame haunts the corner of my vision.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t budge.
I itch to look at him to determine if his silence is for good reason. Does he think I look okay? Have I met his expectations?
“Everything okay?” he finally murmurs, his voice more roughened than usual.
I nod, suddenly mute.
From my periphery, I watch him round the sofa and come toward me.
Shit.
I can’t do proximity. Not when I can already smell his delicious aftershave.
I kick my legs into first gear and start toward the entry.
It doesn’t take long for him to close in behind me, his presence tickling every nerve down my spine.
“You sure know how to steal a man’s attention.” His words are so devastatingly low I question whether they’re a figment of my imagination. “I’ve never seen anything more stunning.”
My breath catches, clogging the back of my throat.
I shouldn’t pause, not when Dad and Lucy are already outside, leaving the two of us alone, but curiosity digs its claws into me, forcing me to turn.
I become entranced by his unfathomable gorgeousness. I’ve seen him in what feels like a hundred different suits. All of them black. But tonight, in his tuxedo, his devastating handsomeness is beyond compare.
He’s different.
No longer a criminal at work.
He’s a man at play. An incredibly suave one, whose hungry eyes rake over me.
“It’s a beautiful dress.” I wipe a sweaty palm over the boning of my bodice.
In this moment, I could almost kid myself into believing that he’s a normal guy, and I’m a normal girl, and a future between us would be far from a mistake.
“It has nothing on the woman wearing it.” He weaves a hand around my back, raising the tiny hairs all over my body as he gently guides me toward the front door.
Every inch of my skin remains flushed and tingling for the twenty-minute drive into Berkeley Springs. Remy takes a turn off one of the main roads and parks in front of a small brick building, a chipped paint sign stating Les Délices de Versailles hanging above the awning.
It doesn’t look like a black-tie restaurant.
If anything it seems more like an everyday eating house. One that locals know to steer clear of if the lack of cars out front is any indication.
“In all my years, I’ve never had French cuisine.” Lucy opens her door in the back. “I’m so excited.”
I hide a smile, her enthusiasm contagious.
“You ready?” Remy asks as Dad and Lucy climb out.
I nod, holding my focus on the restaurant.
I need to keep my wits about me—or maybe just wrangle my lust under some semblance of control—but my brain always wants to cut and run whenever I look at him.
We get out, all four of us walking toward the restaurant together—Remy in the lead, Lucy helping my dad in the middle, and me deliberately staying at the back.
The front door opens on our approach, a young woman in all black service-wear holding it ajar as she nervously balances a tray of bubbling champagne flutes.
“Mr. Costa?” She smiles at Remy.
He inclines his head.
“Welcome.” She inches the tray forward for him to take a glass. “Please come in. Dinner is going to be amazing.”
My heart rate increases as each of us claim a drink and follow the waitress inside.
It’s kinda random.
Actually, it’s top-notch weird.
The interior of the building is as ‘black tie’ as the outside. It’s definitely nice, with a welcoming small-town vibe and cute wooden chairs that match the cute little vases filled with small fake flowers beside the table numbers. But Les Délices de Versailles is nothing more than a small-town family restaurant.
An empty small-town family restaurant.
There isn’t a single soul dining here except us.
“Did you reserve the entire restaurant?” Lucy gushes.
What?
My gaze snaps to Remy for confirmation.
It’s the waitress who nods with enthusiasm. “He even requested the live entertainment. We’ve never had a booking like this before. The chef is beyond excited.”
On cue, a middle-aged woman walks through the swinging kitchen doors, raising a violin to her shoulder. She poises her bow against the strings as she moves to stand in the open floorspace near the small empty bar, then decimates my heart with a melodic rendition of a classic Ed Sheeran song.
I struggle to keep following everyone to the only table in the room covered with a crisp white tablecloth, the fake flowers replaced with red roses.
Remy arranged all of this? For me? For my dad?
The dress. The shoes. The extravagance.
How can he be so selfless yet still cast himself as the irredeemable villain?
The poor guy has more screws loose than I do.
“Come on, Liv.” Dad waves me over to the table, his grin infectious.
“Coming.” I down a large gulp of champagne and will the alcoholic goodness to suppress my growing attraction. All it does is awaken my mouth with tingles, making me wonder what it would be like to be kissed by someone brimming with confidence and charisma.
We’re seated at a square table, Dad and Lucy side by side, grinning at each other in excitement, while Remy holds out my chair to help me into the place setting beside him.
We’re offered water—sparkling, still, or tap. Tattered leather-bound menus are handed over.
“You can order from the menu,” the waitress offers, “or choose to be surprised with what has already been prearranged.”
“I want to be surprised,” Lucy gushes.
“Me, too.” Dad places his menu on the table without looking at it.
All eyes turn to me.
“A surprise would be nice,” I lie.
I don’t think I can handle more revelations. My bucket already overfloweth with praise for Remy. I’m not sure I’ll even be able to hold a conversation with him after this—not with my ovaries in knots and my heart seriously entangled.
“Great. I’ll let the chef know.” The waitress retrieves the menus one by one, hugging them to her chest. “The first of your ten-course meal should be ready shortly.” She turns on her heel, her ponytail swishing.
“Ten.” Lucy’s eyes threaten to fall out of her head with how wide they stretch.
Dad chuckles. “I hope everyone is hungry.”
“It’s a tasting menu,” Remy cuts in with refinement. “Each plate will be a small portion.”
I nibble my bottom lip, staring absentmindedly at my sparkling cutlery.
I can’t tell if this is common nature for someone with Remy’s wealth, or if he’s deliberately impressing me. Either way, someone has to tell him that continuing down the generous extravagance path is only making me want to experience all those dirty sex acts Ivy boasts about.
If he’s not careful, I’ll dock his brains out right here at the dinner table.
I reach for my champagne, only to turn rigid when Remy leans close.
“Are you okay?” His warm knuckles skate over the material of my skirt, pressing gently into my thigh.
“Mm-hmm.” I take another gulp, emptying my glass.
I know alcohol isn’t the answer, but I’m not sure what is when my body is filled with a demented level of thermonuclear energy.
“Just hungry.” I tilt my legs away and lower the flute to the table, the base barely brushing against the tablecloth before the waitress hustles forward to fill it again.
“Did you hear a new Italian restaurant opened in Towson that has some sort of celebrity chef?” Dad asks.
I ignore him as I smile in thanks at the waitress, whispering my gratitude.
Remy and my dad chat about the restaurant, the conversation soon evolving into the topic of nightclubs, and then government rules and regulations.
I don’t expect them to get along so well. But they talk without pause, one discussion rolling into another, with fun quips and taunting sarcasm that makes Lucy laugh while I pretend to be enamored by the violinist and not their bond.
It isn’t long before the waitress returns with a team of staff trailing behind her, all four of them exuding some form of nervousness as they position themselves behind each of us to synchronize the placing of our meals.
“This is the amuse-bouche.”Our main waitress moves to stand tall before me and my father. “It’s a petite gougère filled with truffle-infused béchame.”
I’m pretty sure she’s butchered a few of the pronunciations but it’s incredibly endearing.
Remy inclines his head in gratitude while the rest of us sit in awe as the staff scuffle away.
It’s so strange—us dressed like royalty in a family diner, the waitstaff equally out of sorts with the fine-dining experience.
I don’t even know how I’m supposed to eat the pastry. With my fingers? A knife and fork?
I focus on Dad, waiting to see how he handles the situation, and find him staring at the tiny morsel of artistically displayed food in confoundment.
This is ridiculous—the clothes, the restaurant, the misplaced luxury.
I can’t help the laugh that bursts from my lips.
There’s never been a situation more out of my comfort zone, but I love it.
Dad’s gaze snaps to me. Lucy’s, too.
“It’s not funny.” My dad smiles through the concern. “I have no idea how I’m supposed to eat this without being rude.”
“Just use your fingers.” Remy picks up the gougère and demonstrates, my laughter snuffed as his mouth wraps around the circular pastry.
I salivate.
I’d give anything to know what it’s like to be kissed by him. Devoured. It’s becoming the entirety of my bucket list.
Dad and Lucy follow suit. I choose to nibble mine through the nausea-inducing infatuation.
Our plates are cleared. Our drinks refilled. Then the appetizer arrives—a salmon tartare with avocado, caviar, and yuzu dressing, which we eat through a debate over the best ice cream flavors.
The soup course is a creamy chestnut with an extravagant French name. The hot appetizer is seared foie gras on brioche with apple compote and sauternes reduction.
It’s all breathtakingly incredible, each bite a mouthwatering surprise as the champagne begins to soothe my frazzled energy into something warm and comforting.
Dad brings up the topic of most memorable childhood moments as the fish course is served. I smile as he revisits a story I’ve already heard a million times about how my late grandmother would scream bloody murder if anyone dared to tackle him while playing school football.
There’s a palate cleanser. A meat course. Then a platter of cheeses. And a pre-dessert before an actual dessert.
It’s ridiculously lavish and the absolute best food I’ve eaten in my entire life.
By the time we’re finished, my belly is bursting and my skin flushed from more than one too many champagnes.
I’ve grown high on the classical music, the violin notes dancing in my ears and vibrating into my chest.
I begin to feel at home, even though I’m miles from Baltimore in a dress that’s fit for royalty, while seated in front of my dying father and adjacent to a brutal murderer.
“Remy, do a sick man a favor and ask my daughter to dance,” my dad says, pulling me out of the mental calm to drop me straight into a pot of what-the-absolute-fuck?
Dad meets my gaze with a snicker. “Don’t look so surprised. You love dancing.”
“I loved it when I was five. Things change.”
He returns his attention to Remy. “Come on, Costa. It would mean the world to me to see her live a little.”
“Dad,” I scold.
Is he trying to play Cupid?
He doesn’t acknowledge the reprimand. He gives literally no shits as he blinks at Remy with overexaggerated puppy-dog eyes.
Oh. God.
What’s worse is that I can’t tell what Remy’s thinking as he focuses on me with indifference. If he’s trying to come up with an excuse, or attempting to distinguish whether my protests are earnest or just to save face from an inevitable rejection.
It’s both.
I don’t want to recreate the first time I was turned down by the man of my fantasies. And even if he does want to dance, I don’t think I can when my renewed nervousness will undoubtedly cause me to regurgitate each and every one of those ten courses in front of my dad, Lucy, and the restaurant staff.
So I scowl at Remy in warning.
Scowl so hard I’m sure the resulting wrinkles will become a permanent fixture.
His lips twitch, his unreadable expression quickly filling with deviousness.
“Don’t do it,” I whisper.
Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t do it.
He pushes to his feet, towering above me with smug superiority as he holds out a hand. “May I have this dance?”
Bastard.
Lucy squeaks with joy.
I don’t move. I can’t. My legs are lead weights while my stomach twists in knots.
“Are you going to turn me down, Ollie?” Remy’s slight curve of lips transforms into a full-blown, panty-melting grin.
“Of course she won’t.” My dad tugs at my wrist. “She wants nothing more than to make her father happy.”
I groan. “Talk about emotional blackmail.” I grab the starched white napkin from my lap and dump it on the table. “It’s not a vibe, Dad.”
He snickers. Lucy giggles.
It’s a ripe ol’ comedy fest, but I’m not laughing because as soon as I slide my fingers over Remy’s calloused palm I struggle to do anything other than hide my increased need for oxygen.
He guides me to my feet and leads me past empty tables as the musician glances up from her violin, playing one final note of her song before stopping, the result filling the room with awkward silence.
I slow my pace. “I think she wants to have a break.”
“She’s waiting for us to take our place,” Remy corrects.
I wince, the expression lasting the briefest second as he drags me into the open space beside the bar then turns to face me.
I stiffen as our eyes meet—all dreamy confidence versus pained hesitation.
He tugs me forward, guiding me against him, my hands instinctively raising to palm his chest for stability.
It’s too much. Too close.
I lower my gaze, pretending to focus on foot placement while butterflies launch an internal assault against me. The sweet melodic notes of a new song begin to play as Remy palms my hip and entwines our right hands. Then we’re swaying, barely dancing, his pulse beating beneath my fingers.
“Your dad is playing matchmaker,” he murmurs under his breath.
I’d already assumed as much, but the confirmation is unsettling.
“He gave me the talk this afternoon,” he adds.
I pull back to look at him. “The talk?”
“He asked about my intentions.”
Dear fucking Lord.
“What did you say?” I choke out.
“I admitted I’m attracted to you, but apparently that’s already common knowledge.”
My butterflies morph into vultures. “I hope you explained that I’m a pitifully inept virgin that you gave a hard pass. I’m sure he would’ve offered his sincerest condolences.”
Without warning I’m dragged backward into an extravagant dip. I gasp in mortification as Lucy gasps in excitement across the other side of the room.
I glower as I’m pulled back upright, my eyes pinning his in fury.
“Don’t look at me like that, Pyro.” He growls under his breath. “I assure you your anger doesn’t have the wanted effect.”
“And what effect does it have, Reaper?”
He strengthens his grip on my hip and drags me tighter against him, the hard length of his cock pressing into my pubic bone. “Does that answer your question?”
My feet flounder against his until he loosens his hold, allowing me the freedom not to be edged by his dick.
“I’d apologize for being crass if I didn’t know that you love what you do to me.” His fingers entwine with mine, making the hand contact more intimate.
“You’re wrong.” I lean into his shoulder, hiding my face from view. “I could never love knowing we both want something you won’t allow us to have.”
His shoulders tighten. It’s the only sign I’ve hit a sensitive target.
I quickly flounder to change the subject. “I can’t believe you booked an entire restaurant.”
“We needed to lay low.”
“Yeah, but an entire restaurant?”
I can sense his self-satisfied smile without having to see it. “Why not?”
“It must be nice to be able to hemorrhage money on a whim.” I huff.
“I guess it is. I’ve never done it before.”
“Remy, you’re constantly in designer suits.”
“They were gifts from Lorenzo.”
“What about the cars?”
“Rentals.”
I push back from his shoulders to stare at his earnest expression. “The penthouse?”
“Is owned by Matthew.”
My dance movements slow. “You’re telling me you’ve never splurged like this before? Not ever? Not even when you were making stacks of cash with your fashion label and walking red carpet events?”
“There were no stacks of cash. We weren’t paid for our work. Instead, me and my siblings were manipulated into believing our parents were investing in our future by withholding funds when what they were really doing was denying our ability to escape.”
“Remy, I’m so sorry. I assumed?—”
“It’s okay.” He tugs me back into him, making it seem so natural for me to rest my head between his jaw and shoulder. “I’m well aware you know very little about me.”
“I don’t know your stories, but I know what type of man you are.”
A low rumble of disagreement emanates from his chest. “At least you think you do.”
I’m not going to ruin the moment by arguing. It’s clear neither of us will be swayed on our opinion.
“I’ve thought about you all week,” he admits quietly into my hair. “I didn’t know if you were all right.”
“I was.”
His thumb strokes my hip, lazy and smooth. “You didn’t cry. Not when I told you the news. And not at work all week.”
I sigh. “Please tell Wesley the whistleblower I don’t appreciate him being a snitch.”
That thumb continues to stroke back and forth, back and forth, coaxing me into a dreamy existence.
“You can cry in front of me, Ollie. I won’t hold it against you.”
I drag his scent deeper into my lungs. “I’m not sure I know how anymore.”
“Why is that?”
I shrug, my feet shuffling in incremental movements. “Growing up surrounded by death made for some pretty emotional times. I’d finish school only to return home to a place filled with mourning.”
It was hard. I couldn’t burst through the front doors of my parents’ work with news of good grades or achievement awards in case they were consoling someone. On the flip side, I couldn’t get upset when they were organizing a funeral that I found devastating—like that of a young mother, or a kid my age. Having some random girl blubber about a stranger’s hardships would only make things harder for clients.
“I had to learn how to mask sadness,” I admit.
He continues to rub comforting strokes with his thumb, swaying us gently.
“My mom told me the most important role of the family business was not only to provide an honorable farewell to our decedents, but to provide comfort to those who were suffering… We don’t cry.” I repeat the words she spoke so many times. “We have to be strong. Always.”
I can still hear her voice in my head. The soft cadence. The compassionate tone.
“I wanted so badly to become an unbreakable force of nature like her that I stopped crying altogether. I can’t remember shedding a single tear during my teenage years. And my most recent case wasn’t even an emotional reaction. It was when I moved houses and tripped while holding a thin glass vase. It shattered and stabbed me straight in the chest.”
I lean back and make the mistake of pointing to the small, faded scar above my left breast.
His attention follows my finger, the hard flex of his jaw making my skin burn.
He clears his throat. “That tracks. You’re pretty lethal with a vase.”
I grin. “You should see me with a scalpel.”
“No, thanks. I’m already having a hard time controlling my lust.” He leans in, surprising me with a chaste kiss to my forehead. A chaste kiss that sizzles right through me, scorching every organ I possess. “Your mom sounds like a wonderful woman.”
“She was.” I breathe through all the sizzling. The heart palpitations and undeniable chemistry, too. “Do you speak to yours often? I know the relationship with your dad was… troubled, but what about your mom?”
He pivots us slightly, sending us swaying in the opposite direction. “We’re not much for talking. Her teaming up with my father in the whole offspring murder plot kinda put a dampener on our relationship. And besides, she hasn’t been allowed a lot of call time since being imprisoned in the basement of one of Lorenzo’s mansions.”
I stop moving, shock rendering me immobile.
“Keep dancing, Ollie.” He guides me back into movement. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” I struggle to fathom the complexity of his life. “Every time you talk about your family I don’t think it can get any worse.”
“It’s not my family—only my parents. My siblings and I stuck together as best we could.”
“Remy, your brother stabbed you.”
He hits me with a devilish grin. “Yeah, but I did have a gun held to the woman he loves.”
“What?” I gape. “Why?”
“It’s a long story. One that isn’t meant for a night like this.”
I nod, appreciating that he’s shared insight into his life at all. “Isn’t it dangerous for you to tell me as much as you do? It’s incriminating.”
“It is. So do me a solid and quit being someone I want to share my secrets with.”
My breath stalls in my lungs, my vulnerability toward his statement cut short by a chair scraping behind us.
I glance to my right, finding Dad and Lucy climbing from their seats.
I tense. “What are they doing?”
Dad reaches into his suit jacket, pulling out his wallet.
“It looks like Carlo is about to offend me.” Remy releases my hip. “Do you mind if we cut the dance short?”
“Not at all.”
He gives my hand one final squeeze then maneuvers around me, leaving me cold as I follow his long stride back to the table.
“What’s going on, Pelosi?” Remy glowers at the credit card my father places atop the tablecloth.
“Lucy and I are going to call it a night and let the two of you continue alone.”
“Dad, no.” I step forward. “If you’re leaving so am I.”
“Please don’t.” His eyes plead. “Today has been the best I’ve had since before your mother died. But I’m tired, fragolina. New meds are making me sleepy. I won’t leave if you plan on coming, too.”
I open my mouth to protest but pause at his beseeching expression.
He truly wants me to stay.
I think I might want it, too.
“All I’m doing is going back to the house to sleep.” He shuffles closer to wrap an arm around my shoulders. “Please stay and have fun for me.”
“What do you say, little Pelosi?” Remy grabs the credit card and slips it into my father’s chest pocket before looking at me. “Do you think you can handle one more drink?”