40. Trouble for Troliver
TROUBLE FOR TROLIVER
SEPTEMBER
Asher
Nights like these are one of the many reasons I said yes to my dream job. An evening out with old friends, a good meal, a beautiful city.
And a great job. I’ve taken a million photos of athletes at work. Redefining FLI’s audience for a younger generation is our goal. And I can’t believe I get to be part of the project.
By all accounts, Paris has been fantastic for the last ten weeks.
And so have England, and Spain, and Germany. I’ve been all over, shooting right in the thick of the action.
The gig is everything. The lifestyle, even more so.
Truly, I can’t complain.
Well, not about much.
And definitely not about the weather, since rain can make for great photos.
With my phone, I snap a shot of my English friends on the other side of the table at the Parisian brasserie while silvery drops of water hit the cobblestone street in a faint drizzle.
“Make sure I look pretty,” Felicity chirps, tilting her blonde head next to her husband’s.
“You always do, love,” he says.
“And Oscar is correct,” I say as I set down the phone. “I’ll send it your way later.”
As we return to the debate on the merits of skiing in Switzerland versus France, my mind meanders to New York. Does Mark ski? No. Too risky. Bet he even has a risk analysis spreadsheet for skiing versus . . . walking in the city.
And why do I find that idea so fucking endearing?
“Should we all go later this year then?”
I snap my attention to my friends. “Name the date,” I say, since that's my mantra.
Felicity suggests the first week of December, then goes quiet. “Asher . . .”
The sound of my name is full of import. “Yes?”
“You don’t quite seem yourself.”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“You’re here, but every now and then you’re . . . not ,” she says, far too observant for my own good. “Like, your mind is elsewhere. And I know it’s not us, because we’re brilliant company.” She adds a wink.
“You are.” I finish my wine, then wave a hand. “It’s nothing.”
Oscar arches a bushy brow. “Nothing? Since when do you, mate, ever live in anything but the present?”
That’s an excellent question. With a very easy answer.
Since Mark Banks.
I just shrug, but then flash a grin. “Since never.”
Felicity taps her chin. “I call bullshit.”
Well, then. Maybe serving up the short story will help me forget him. “I met someone. Had a fling. Can’t quite get him out of my mind. But don’t worry. Soon, he’ll be gone from here.” I tap my temple.
I’m met with eyebrow arches from both of them. “But what about in here?” Felicity asks, tapping her heart.
That’s a question I don’t want to contemplate.
I came to Paris for this dream job, not to moon over a man. If there’s any place I can get over someone, it ought to be the City of Love.
But I’ve had no interest in getting on top of or under anyone.
Totally fucking annoying.
“Yup, I’m fine there,” I say as the rain falls harder.
Oscar cranes his gaze to the sky. “Well, that’s a sign,” he remarks, giving his wife a naughty look.
His wife laughs. “A sign you want to get home and shag?”
“You know me so well, love,” he says.
“And on that note,” I say, pushing back in my chair since we’ve already paid the bill, “I better let you get right to it.”
Oscar wraps an arm around her. “Actually, we were going to watch An Arranged Marriage first. The final episode runs tonight. Have you been watching this summer?”
Well, well. This just got more interesting than their sex life. “You two like that show?”
Felicity gives a coy shrug. “I like Ollie and Trevor. They get me in the mood.”
Join the club.
Oscar squeezes her shoulder. “And I like what she likes,” he says, and he sounds like he’s already in the mood.
Which is as good a reason as any for me to say goodnight. Not that Englishmen from the Victorian era aren’t reason enough. Is Mark still watching? What does he think of the twist last week when Ollie’s long-lost brother showed up, the rake who’d lost his fortune and begged his brother for help?
After I say goodnight to my friends, I make my way along Rue Saint-Dominique as the rain patters down.
Absently, I run my finger across the phone screen in my pocket, tempted once again to text Mark like I did last month when Lord Ollie was sent back to the country. You called it, but so did I . . .
Sir Trevor had indeed chased Ollie down. The poet is mad about his lord, and can’t resist the dashing Ollie.
Understandable.
You were right too, Asher , Mark had replied. As I cross the avenue, I swipe my thumb on the text thread, re-reading our last string of messages from August as a few raindrops hit the phone.
That’s the last time we texted. I probably shouldn’t message him again.
After all, it’s nine o’clock in Paris, and I’m heading to my flat to watch my favorite TV show as I re-read old notes from the guy I left behind in New York.
Pretty sure this isn’t what I signed up for when I volunteered as tribute.
Forty-five minutes later, I’m perched on the edge of the couch, wanting to reach out to my nerdy banker, and share a play-by-play.
When Ollie pushes Trevor up against the wall in the library at the end of a ball for the duchess, I mutter, “Get your man .”
“I don’t care what my brother says. It is only ever you that I want,” Ollie says, all hot and bothered.
Trevor tries to look away, to fight off the desire. “I don’t know how to believe you anymore.”
“Believe me,” Ollie declares, then kisses the hell out of his man.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” I say to the screen, and my fingers itch to text Mark. To ask if he wants to test out those moves.
Slam me against the wall. Rip off my shirt. Or be slammed. Be stripped.
I start to type a message.
Then stop.
Is this really what I’m going to do? Talk dirty to him about a TV show? On the other hand, I could text and ask if he wants to grab a flight this weekend, and we can screw, then walk along the Seine, hit a club, or hell, just get dinner.
But I don’t type anything, because what in the holy fuckery of TV twists is happening on my screen right now?
The dastardly?their word?brother broke up Troliver by sending my favorite lord to America! Are you kidding me? I want to throw my laptop into the river.
Good thing I didn’t text Mark to tune in. That’d be so fun?watching together as those two guys broke up. Not.
I exit out of Webflix and head to my calendar to get my mind off ex-lovers. I vowed to do a better job these days of keeping my schedule.
The next few weeks have me following a dozen teams to a dozen places. The gig is going to vault me to the next level of world-class photogs. Added bonus?another couple weeks of this kind of busy should do the trick in erasing Mark from my mind.
Then I can live in the present again.
I click away from the calendar when an email notification pops up from Hannah for a party. Is it already time for a baby shower?
But when I open it, the invitation makes perfect sense.
The big three-zero for Flip is coming up soon. He’s younger than me by nine months, and we always used to joke that we’d go skydiving on his thirtieth.
Instead, Hannah is hosting a party in the city.
Mere miles away from the guy I can’t stop thinking of.
Will Mark be there?
No idea, but I know where I’m scheduled to be that weekend.
Barcelona. And that’s not anywhere near Manhattan.