Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
T onight’s the night. My second date ever. I can’t help but wonder if Damien saw me how Jamie has—jet-lagged fresh off an airplane, half naked in my pajamas, sweating from head to toe as I chase his siblings around—would he have still asked me out? Or maybe Damien really is a stand-up guy.
Maybe this is my time. After legit years of waiting for someone, a gorgeous Frenchman has taken an interest in me. And I am going to enjoy it.
These thoughts linger in my head for the rest of the afternoon after picking the kids up from Estelle’s, on the train ride back to èze, and along the walk back to the villa, where Emi greets us.
While Milo has been my fan since day one, Josie took some warming up. But I’m skating on thin ice with Manon. It could be one more snide comment to Angela about me and out I go. Hopefully, a bit of space between us tonight will be enough to soften the tension and maybe mend the fences enough to hold it together.
Still, another two months of this won’t work if things stay the same. I’ll be sent packing if I can’t figure something out. My French is getting better, sure, and my cultural competence has sharpened, absolutely. I know each of the kids’ favorite dinners, shampoo brands, and board games. I can even get through half a day now without a prolonged temper tantrum from the younger ones.
But Manon’s quick wit and hyper-independent spirit are getting the better of me. Just the other day, she left equestrian practice on her own. The stable attendants hadn’t seen her leave, and after half an hour of panic and clambering for the French 911, I found her a few blocks down the road, eating a pear by the bus stop.
If Angela or Nick thinks I’m going to lose their kids in the French Riviera, there’s no shot at me keeping this gig, not to mention a spot in the Young Soarers program. Fortunately, Angela’s yet-to-be-verified personal detective hasn’t caught me in the act. But I won’t always be so lucky.
I can’t let that shake me. Not tonight, anyway.
Now sitting in my bedroom, the coral sunset over the peninsula fades into twilight, and the room’s scattered lamps send a warming glow over every surface. The boudoir seat seems like it belongs to a movie star.
“Eyes closed,” Emi says. She puts down one makeup brush coated in mauve blush and picks up another caked in a shimmering taupe. Emi has been the MVP of the night, from taking over childcare duty to helping me get ready for this gala. It feels nice. The way the brush tickles my skin and how the creamy lipstick glides on. Athleisure and moisturizer had become my go-to for the past few years out of sheer functionality. But if my time in France has taught me one thing about myself so far, it’s that I like a good dress-up too.
“Ready for the gown?” Emi asks as she finishes tying my hair into an intricately braided low bun.
I pull a long yellow sundress off its hanger in the closet. It’s the closest thing I’ve got to a ball gown. Emi and I face the mirror with me holding the cotton dress over my lounge clothes.
“No,” a thick, heavy voice mutters.
Spinning around, I make eye contact with Angela. She invites herself in through the crack in the door, holding a white box close to her hip. She’s wearing a satin bathrobe and wide rollers in her hair. I assume she’s going out with Nick tonight.
“Here,” she says, placing the bow-tied box on the edge of the bed. “A proper dress for a proper gala.”
I raise my eyebrows and quickly close my dropped jaw.
“An extra from last year’s collection. I saw it in the office storage and thought you could wear it. You are always representing the Chessleys, you know.”
No words come out of my mouth, but if she could only see the invisible gratitude pouring out of me.
Or wait. Is this a test? Am I supposed to politely deny?
Angela toys with her dangling gold earring, examining her Versace slippers. “And. You have been doing much better with les enfants,” she admits reluctantly, clutching opposite elbows.
A genuine gift. So she does have a heart. A grin pushes through my cheeks. “Merci, Angela. Merci beaucoup.”
Half a smile stays on her lips for no more than a millisecond.
“Bien. Amuse-toi, and be careful with that dress, eh? I’ll see you there.”
I scrunch my brow until her explanation unwinds it. She and Nick had been invited months prior. Initially, conflicting work schedules had prevented them from confirming their attendance.
“And is Jamie going too?” I ask, brushing a stray piece of hair behind my ear.
Angela shrugs. “Qui sait?”
Good point. Who really knows except him.
I straighten my spine and thank Angela once more. We exchange nods, and she retreats to the hallway.
Emi eagerly bounces over to the box and asks to untie the bow. I give her the go-ahead while I bite my lower lip. Below flaps of tissue paper, scarlet-red sequins shine back at us. With one quick swoop, Emi lifts the dress out of the box, swishing it in all its glory. A form-fitting V-neck masterpiece aglow with a million ruby sequins. It even has flowy sleeves. The design is flawless, timeless, and quite aerodynamic.
I tug on the fabric a few times to make sure all the threads are intact. Can’t walk into this party only for the potentially faulty ballgown to slip right off my body. Now that would be enough of a scandal for Angela to send me packing.
Adorning a pair of comfy wedges, an effervescence reverberates through me as I take a peek in the mirror. Whoever she is. She’s glowing.
Emi sits back in the boudoir seat while I twirl like a young girl playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes.
“Oh mon Dieu,” Emi says.
“What?” I gaze down at the dress hugging my thighs and brushing the rug. “Is there a rip?”
Emi shakes her head, grinning. “C’est absolument magnifique.”
A smile brims at my scarlet lips.
Damien announces his arrival—a few minutes early, peculiar for a Frenchman—with a few horn beeps out on the gravel drive. I figure he’s avoiding a meet and greet at the front door out of precaution for a chance encounter with Jamie. Emi takes both my hands and gives them a squeeze.
“Go, have fun.” She hands me my gilded rhinestone clutch. “I put an extra lipstick and some peppermints in there.”
I sigh. “Emi, thank you. Merci, merci, merci.” My eyes trail to the clutch, and my stomach drops. My face must tell the same story.
“Minou, quel est le problème?”
“I-I haven’t...” I drop my voice. “...kissed a guy in... well longer than I want to admit.” Jitters flutter through me, and I can’t control my tongue’s speed. “And I’m not saying that he wants to. I’m just preparing, you know?”
Emi rests her hand on my shoulder. “Minou, that doesn’t matter. Guys can hardly tell the difference, so long as you’ve got la confiance .” Her smile encourages mine. We hug, and a few minutes later, I’m locking eyes with Damien who’s leaning against a pastel-yellow vintage convertible. My gosh. Where does he work?
The moonlight’s reflection on his slicked-back, jet-black hair is as bright as his white tux. His gray eyes, luscious eyelashes, and strong jawline send heat racing up my spine.
“I have to ask you to do the spin, eh?” he asks, twirling his fingers.
Confidence. Confidence, Kat.
A giggle accompanies my compliance, and the sparkling dress floats in the air as I take a few turns on the gravel. He opens the passenger door for me, holding my hand while I take my seat.
We cruise along the streets tucked into the mountain ridges, and I watch lights on the yachts and sailboats glitter across the harbor down and to my right. Wiggling my toes in my shoes, I take inaudible deep breaths, trying to make sense of where I’m going tonight, who I’m going with, and what I’m going to maybe do with him.
“Have you been yet? To Monaco? Monte Carlo?” Damien asks.
“No. I know it’s silly. We’re only, what, twenty minutes from there?”
Damien shakes his head, running his fingers through his perfectly quaffed hair. “No, no, it isn’t silly. In fact, it was wrong of me to ask. You must not get a lot of free time having to take care of Jamie’s brother and sisters.”
“Oh, well...” It’s strange to hear Damien utter Jamie’s name. Part of me wants to join in on the griping, but another part instinctively wants to defend. “I get enough... free time.”
“Hmm, enough is never enough. Especially when you are in La C?te,” he says.
Damien listens more than talks, nods intentionally, and makes sure to glance my way with some eye contact and a smile every so often. He lets me ramble, encourages me, almost understanding how nice it is to just vent sometimes. I go on about my time with the Chessleys so far, my routines with the kids, my own fumbles along the way. I start to veer off into what I think of the village, the shops I’ve frequented, and I’m almost comfortable enough to divulge Solange’s proposal, but Damien—apologizing for cutting me off—points ahead.
“Here we are. Monte Carlo.”
Rounding a wall of cypress hedges, a horseshoe-shaped harbor aglow with hundreds of neatly lined-up yachts comes into view. Overlooking the water and graced with soft lamplight are the cleanest plaster and stucco buildings that date back a few hundred years. Next to more modern mid-rises sit churches, hotels, and shopping centers fit for royalty. The entire country of Monaco is less than one square mile, but the winding pedestrian streets that must glow with their pastel color in the daytime would render one to get lost rather quickly.
We pull onto a perfectly paved street with trimmed palm trees occupying neat patches of soil along the clean sidewalks and smudgeless lamplights. Vintage cars sporting teal, white, and cherry-red paint park adjacent to the street.
At the end of the road comes a rotary with a fountain as large as a house in the center. Damien parks the car next to a line of other retro convertibles. Swaths of guests decked out in their finest suits, gowns, and jewels make their way to the two-story building dominating the street. Awash with golden lamplight, the beige exterior glows to life. Decorated with intricate molding around its lines of rectangular windows, moonlight cascades over its two pointed domes that sandwich an operating clock face directly north of the main entrance.
“The Monte Carlo Casino.” Damien nods in the building’s direction, where guests twinkling in their attire make their way to the party, like bees to honey. It’s so different to the few casinos I’ve ever been in, usually to catch a concert or to fuss with the penny slots with some college friends. Those places only offered the facade of luxury, and we got what we paid for: mediocre steak dinners and ash-caked carpets.
This is the opposite. Damien places his hand on my lower back, guiding us toward the red carpet rolled out before the entrance. I wouldn’t call them paparazzi, but a pack of eager photographers shout in French, English, and Italian to the guests strutting their stuff along the backdrop peppered with the auto show’s gala logo.
“Come, we walk it too.”
My eyes widen at Damien. “But I’m not, we’re not celebrities.”
“They aren’t either.” He points to a few women decked in pant suits and ball gowns. “It’s what we do at galas.”
Oh, right. Come on, Kat. You’ve only been immersed in this world for two seconds of your life. Shouldn’t you know this stuff already?
When it’s our turn, a bashful smile crosses under my nose, and I clench my stomach. The incessant clicking from the cameras draws my attention in every which way. Some of the cameramen and women sit on the ground. That can’t be a good angle. The photos are relentless, like a row of a thousand semitrucks flashing their high beams into my pupils.
Damien places his hand around my waist and tugs me closer to him. I rest my hand on his mid-back, and for a moment, I feel pretty secure. He leans to my ear, turning his head away from the cameras.
“Lift your chin, smile like you just got a whole week of vacation, and turn your neck to the right. It’s your best angle.”
So he has been looking! Heat travels around my sternum and straight to my armpits this time.
Following Damien’s tips, every vertebrae in my spine rises and straightens. Like I just took an espresso shot of confidence. He hugs my waist closer to his side before we make our way off the carpet and to the main floor.
But the second we step through the glass entry doors to the casino, all else escapes my mind. Attendants hand out glasses of champagne, guiding us and the other guests through a wide hall lined with marble columns. Along the ceiling, a stained glass window illuminates with the help of adjacent lighting.
Seconds later, we enter the main reception. The sound of clicking heels disappears on the soft carpet and is replaced with the chatter of hundreds of people enthralled in their own conversations. It seems I’m the only one gazing at the complex sculpted wall panels, the ceiling’s murals and molding, and the dramatic pure-crystal chandelier. There must be nearly a thousand glittering diamonds magnifying light over the room.
Card and roulette tables have been moved to the room’s perimeter and are replaced with dinner tables. At the far end of the room, next to the jazz band blitzing their instruments, sit three prized cars up for auction. Each had been used in renowned Hollywood films from the 1950s.
“Kat.” I spin around and see Angela in a silky copper slip making her way toward me. She nods her auburn updo to Damien but addresses me solely. “Come. Let’s see Estelle.”
“Estelle is here?”
“Oui,” she says, like I should have known.
Damien affirms that he’ll be over in just a second after he gets a new drink at the bar. The champagne is just “customary” as he says.
Angela locks her arm around my elbow and smiles brightly toward Nick and Estelle sipping bubbly by one of the windows.
“How are you?” Angela asks. For the first time ever, her voice sounds maternal.
“Um, fine.”
Should I not be? I hastily glance around the room at the people practically oozing money. Conversations on the second-best yacht clubs and debates on Ritz Carlton versus Four Seasons float around the room. If they tried to ask me a question, I’d have no material for them. Discomfort sprouts in my abdomen until we make it to Estelle, donning a multicolored chiffon muumuu. She’s dyed the ends of her blond pixie haircut silver.
“?a va, Kat?” Estelle smiles wide, giving me a grand hug.
“Uh, bien.” I shrug.
Nick is a bit less perky than his usual self. There’s a stiffness about him tonight and it's not the hair gel in his thick salt-and-pepper quaff. He nods my way and aggressively checks his watch.
“Where in the blazes is he?” Nick says, darting his eyes to the entry hall.
Angela pats her husband’s shoulder. “He never promised, Nico.”
“No, but he should know better. He’s got to start coming to these functions. Chessley Enterprises was built off of goodwill and networking. Jamie needs to learn that.”
Angela nods along to her husband’s mumbling rant.
Estelle taps my elbow. “Seen any celebrities you recognize yet, hmm?”
“No.” I shift my gaze around the room, wondering what’s holding up Damien at the bar. “I wasn’t looking.”
“See there.” Estelle points to the marble hallway where guests continue to pour in. A man wearing a plum suit strides in. A bright, captivating smile plastered on his face. “That man is one of the biggest football stars in France.”
It’s a shame I watch nearly every other sport. Basketball, American football, hockey, Formula 1.
Behind the famed soccer player, someone I do recognize walks in solo. His hands stuffed in the pockets of his deep green suit, his hair neatly tied back. Still, the hints of summer sun are detectable in a few lightened strands. I don’t know how long I’ve been looking, but it’s long enough for him to take a glance around the room and meet my eyes. He stops in his tracks. The crowd muffles for a nanosecond. Instinctively, a grin begins to play at the corner of my lips. I feel my hand, as if I lost all control of it, rising to wave.
I regret it immediately. He’s not alone. Vivian appears at his side. She’s absolutely stunning. A satin silver dress with a slit up the side and all the confidence of an astronaut launching into space completes her look. I see my hand, still frozen in the air mid-wave, and tear it back down. Instead of acting like a normal adult and saying hello to Jamie and his date, I rush to the bar to find Damien.
He’s chatting with the bartender. When he sees me, he pushes an empty glass away from his knuckles and clasps a freshly poured old-fashioned. A suave smile tugs at his mouth and he proceeds to ask if I’d like anything. Before I respond, Jamie’s voice grows louder behind me.
“Nice party, isn’t it?”
Damien’s happy-go-lucky countenance goes cold. “Jamie.”
Vivian shines a smile, taking me by the shoulders for la bise. She’s careful not to smudge either of our makeup. Gosh, her perfume is freaking amazing. She and Damien hardly exchange glances.
“So nice to meet you, Kat. Je suis Vivian,” she says, placing a hand over her cleavage-bearing sweetheart neckline. “Jamie has told me so much about you.”
“Oh, really?” Nothing embarrassing I hope.
Jamie turns his head, putting his attention on the party’s grandeur.
Damien leans forward. “Qu’est-ce que c’est, Jamie? Not to your standards?”
“Not tonight, Damien, eh? And don’t talk to me about standards. Your moral ones could use some work.”
Vivian looks away, the glow in her eyes fading.
“Don’t change the subject.” Damien points to Jamie, stepping closer so they’re only a foot apart.
Jamie instinctively tightens his fist.
“What’s the deal?” Damien prods. “Looking out for your father again?”
Jamie sneers. “Va te faire foutre.”
“Okay,” Vivian says abruptly, grabbing Jamie’s arm in one hand and lifting her dress with the other. “Let’s find our seats.”
Damien and I do the same, though we unfortunately find ourselves only a few chairs down and across from Jamie and Vivian at the long rectangular table. Dinner is a spectacle filled with Michelin-rated specialties delivered on individual silver platters. Still, even the overflowing candle and greenery centerpieces aren’t enough to block the terse glances between Damien and Jamie.
A few times, Jamie and I lock eyes, but he quickly looks elsewhere. Angela and Nick mingle with people I assume to be acquaintances and neighbors, though to keep such a high-profile name in these parts, they also need to treat strangers like their new best friends. Estelle takes to chatting with the waitstaff about the materials used to craft the murals overhead.
When dessert finishes and the cognac has been rolled out, the silent auction commences. My focus draws to Howie Gupta at a baccarat table. Except for the card dealer he’s currently engaged with, he’s completely alone. This could be my chance to squeeze in some one-on-one flattery/networking. A perky laugh a few seats down pulls my gaze to Vivian, draped over Jamie’s right shoulder.
Damien leans to my side. “Want to see something cool?”
Surely Howie will be down here when we return.
I nod and Damien leads me out of the room. I glance back at my seat to make sure I didn’t leave anything, but as I do, I catch Jamie’s eyes on me. This time, he doesn’t remove them. His jaw tightens, his stare unwavering.
On any other day, that fact would consume me with questions. But right now, as Damien whispers to a security guard near a grand staircase, my focus is on him. He pats the guard’s shoulder, and they exchange cordial laughter. Taking my hand, Damien leads me up the carpeted steps, out of view of the party. Conversations and music muddle as we find ourselves alone on the second floor. We start up another staircase tucked behind a door perfectly hidden within wall panel moldings. He gestures to me to follow him, but I hastily glance around.
“It’s all right. You’re going to want to see this,” Damien assures me.
I take his hand the rest of the way. At the top of the fluorescent-lit stairwell, we step onto the casino’s roof. A swoosh of the chilled night air tickles my ankles and races up my legs. I hadn’t realized how hot my cheeks had gotten—from the alcohol most likely. Sighing and drinking in the fresh air, Damien follows behind me as I totter around the roof lit by lights carved into the stone floor.
“étonnant... beautiful. Isn’t it?” Damien leans his elbows on the wide stone railing. In front of us lies nearly all of Monaco. Moonlight caresses the roofs of the elongated U-shaped sliver of land. The harbor buzzes with life and light. “Like you,” he says leaning toward my shoulder. A singular hair lock falls from its gel binding, curling at the tip of his forehead. The cognac lingers on his tongue.
I bite my lower lip and muster a playful scoff.
“It’s a pity you don’t have more time to yourself. Always running after those kids.”
“I don’t mind it too much. I still have plenty of time for other things...” I say, toying with the stone gargoyle to my left. I leave a silence for Damien to inquire more, but he changes the subject.
“Pardon for asking, but how can you even make it through the summer? They don’t pay you much, huh?”
“Um, well. I mean... it’s enough.”
“What do you do it for? The experience?”
It may have started as an inebriated application and evolved into the future of my career resting on my current performance. But he doesn’t need to know that, so I nod and shrug.
“Oui. It’s not really about the money for me.”
“Impressive.” Damien turns around, leaning his back against the railing. “I won’t take a job if it doesn’t hit my minimum.” He lifts his hand flat to his chin level.
There’s a whisper of defiant arrogance in his tone. But I’m intrigued to dig up his rationale.
“You don’t care if you hate what you’re doing?”
Damien shrugs.
“If it pays well enough, I can spend my time off doing things that distract from how much I hate my job.” He laughs, then continues the thought. “My family... we didn’t have much when I was growing up. There were some weeks where we only ate lentils and bread. Eventually, my father had his first success in business. And it, how you say, snowballed from there.”
“What kind of business?”
“Oh, all kinds really. He invested in construction at first. Then he purchased an architecture company and a perfumery. And now he and my mother own a public relations firm. Essentially, we’re venture capitalists.”
“They really cover everything, don’t they?”
“Not everything.” Damien’s voice goes solemn, but he quickly perks up. “Kat.” He takes my hand and gently rubs my fingers. “I’m going away for a few weeks. A family cruise around Italy. I hate to leave when I only just started to get to know you.”
“Distance makes the heart grow fonder?”
Oh my God. Is that me talking or the champagne?
Damien steps closer. My heart rate picks up. “I won’t have much service on the boat.”
“We can write each other letters,” I say jokingly, though part of me really means it.
“Like my grandparents did,” he says, and I remember his comment from the beach the other day.
“Could be fun,” I say, offering a little shrug.
He grins. “It could be. Oui. Je l’aime bien.”
He likes it!
“But,” Damien continues. “Kat. First... I’ll regret it if I don’t try now.”
Oh my gosh.
He takes two steps closer, his hand traveling up my arm and toward my face until my cheek lies in his palm. I fall under the spell of his soft gray eyes. Intoxicated by his cologne and mesmerized by the moment, I tilt my chin upward.
Our lips are only centimeters away when the staircase door whacks open. My stomach sinks. Snapping my head to the right, I see Jamie. A cold expression plays across his face, and he flexes his fists.
Damien drops back from me.
“Kat, we need to go,” Jamie says.
I cross my arms, infuriated that he just ruined the first moment in my European love story.
“What, why?” I scrunch my brow so tight, it might get stuck like that.
“My mother wants you back with the kids by midnight.”
Mother-flipping Angela cock-blocking my European love story.
“Wh— They’re already sleeping. Plus Emi is with them. Why do I need to...”
I sigh, succumbing to Jamie’s long stare. Whatever the reasons, logical or not, I need to follow Angela’s demands. Especially with Howie downstairs.
Friggin’ craptastic. I gather my dress and apologize to Damien for cutting our evening short. His face hardens when he makes eye contact with Jamie.
“Piss off, Damien. Laisse-la tranquille,” Jamie orders him while gesturing in my direction.
Damien insists on taking me home, but Jamie retorts saying his parents don’t want any non-family, non-approved guests at the house later than the current hour. I give Damien a hug and a merci for a wonderful evening.
“We’ll stay in touch, Kat?” Damien says, motioning a pen in his hand. A hopeful glint flashes in his eyes.
I nod without commenting further. So, he does want to be cutesy and old-fashioned.
Thanks for the idea, Estelle.
Damien kisses my cheek, and I keep my focus on him until Jamie and I are alone, descending the staircase, where my annoyance brims over.
“Why would you do that? Right then? Couldn’t wait two minutes?”
Jamie rushes down the stairs avoiding an answer.
“Jamie.”
That turns him around. The stress lines along his forehead soften only for a moment. Our gazes lock. My heart swells to my throat. From a few steps down, his eyes trail from the bottom of my red sequin dress to the top.
A blushing fire scorches over my sternum.
He barely shakes his head, like he’s reprimanding himself, before he continues down the steps. As we make our swift exit out the casino and past the now-empty red carpet, a hoard of photographers sit on the sidewalks. They’re too busy enjoying their smuggled glasses of champagne to take more pictures of the party guests.
Jamie unlocks a cherry-red convertible. He swings open the passenger door for me but hastily makes his way to the driver’s seat.
“What about Vivian? How’s she getting home?”
Jamie rips off his jacket, unbuttons his collar, and takes what seems like his first deep breath of the evening. The cloth of his shirt curves attractively over the muscles in his shoulders and forearms.
“Mum sent a company car.”
I grumpily take my seat, cross my arms, and we’re off. It’s infuriating how good the wind feels going through my hair as we zip down through Monte Carlo and make our way along the moonlit roads following the mountain ridges back to èze. I exhale and slump my shoulders, drawing Jamie’s attention.
“We... She has her reasons, okay?” He steals a glance my way.
“We?”
Jamie grips the wheel tightly. “I didn’t mean that.”
“Oh, well. Please, enlighten me.” The sarcasm in my tone pushes his buttons. Jamie’s brow furrows, his emerald eyes flash in my direction, but I quickly tear my gaze from his.
“I’m not...” Jamie lets out a sigh through his nose.
The wind heartily pushes against us on the road. It’s sending my hair straight back.
“Why can’t you let other people be happy? Just because your secret is eating you alive doesn’t mean we all have to share in your misery.”
Jamie turns his head and ruffles his brow. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Why else ruin my night?” I scoff. “Damien probably thinks I’m just a flake.”
Jamie raises his voice over the whipping wind. “That guy is bad news, Kat.”
My nostrils flare. “Oh yeah? Let me be the judge of that. Oh, but how could I?” I shrug aggressively. “When every time I’m with him, you manage to A, show up right in the middle and B, piss him off. What did you do to make him hate you so much?”
Jamie slams on the brakes at the stop sign.
“Me? What did I do?” He shakes his head. The grin is one of disbelief. “What’s he told you?”
“About what?”
He releases the brake. “So he hasn’t. Figures.”
“What are you talking about?” The wind smacks a loose piece of hair into my eye, and I grab hold of the once-perfectly curled braided bun and twist it into a firm top knot using the hair clip Emi tucked into my clutch.
Jamie leans back against the cream leather seat, loosening his shoulders.
“So, what’s the deal?” I press.
Jamie inhales slowly, barely shaking his head.
His refusal irks me. “Really?”
“It’s not my place. You wouldn’t believe me anyway.”
I roll my eyes and thank the universe for the confirmation.
Damien de Dandonneau. Charming. A bit haughty at times, sure. But at least he’s upfront.
Jamie Chessley. Kind one minute. An absolute ass the next. He’s refused to be upfront with me ever since we found out I’d be au pairing for his family.
The boisterous breeze has calmed as we cruise along the line of cypresses bordering the road.
“I’m sorry,” Jamie says, bringing his focus back on me. “For ruining your night.”
My shoulders drop from my ears. “I’m sure you are.”
Past the automatic gate, we pull onto the gravel driveway. A few lights glow in the bottom row of the villa’s windows. Jamie walks me inside and to the staircase, where he nods up the marble steps.
“I’ll make sure the kitchen’s all cleaned.”
“No, you don’t have to?—”
“It’s all right. You deserve it after tonight.”
Our eyelids hover halfway open, both exhausted. I pick up the red-sequin fabric and make my way up a few steps, taking my heels off in the process.
“And Kat.”
I twist around.
“I truly do apologize. For tonight. Really. And for getting in your way. Maybe...” He kicks his shoe against the floor. “Maybe he has changed. Maybe you bring out the good in him.”
I stare at Jamie, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but he seems to be sincere. I nod in acknowledgment, then turn away. I can feel his eyes on me as I ascend the stairs. It’s getting harder and harder for my hormones to disengage when he’s actually nice like this. I am only human after all.
After rinsing off and pulling on my cozy pajamas, I lean back on the bed. Shutting my eyes is only plausible for a few seconds before I bust them open again to firmly assess each conversation from tonight. My throat, hoarse and sore, aches for something to soothe it. By now it’s past midnight, and I tiptoe down my secret staircase to the kitchen where Jamie has indeed cleaned up.
I pop the kettle on and fix myself a cup of tea. I’m a few sips in when my phone lights up. Great, what is it now?
But my smile and airiness from earlier this evening return when I see Damien’s name.
Will you meet me tonight? By the club in the old town? Here is the address.
Directions pop up to a hole-in-the-wall kind of discothèque, as Angela would say with nausea on her tongue.
I lean on the quartz island and stick my tongue against my cheek. Clubs aren’t really my thing. Sweaty bodies and strobe lights, no thanks. I’m more of a wine on the beach at sunset kind of girl. It’s past 2 a.m. at this point, and I’m not in any mood to try to fake my enjoyment, especially when it’ll take me a good forty minutes to get down to Nice at this hour.
Instead, I offer an alternative.
When do you leave for your cruise? How about coffee tomorrow morning?
I chew on my lip and bury my chin in my palm. No new messages. I wonder if my connection has gone out or if my international phone plan has hit its limit, any excuse for why he hasn’t responded. Making my way back upstairs, eyes glued to the phone, I can only keep my eyelids from shutting for so much longer. Within twenty minutes, I’ll be passed out asleep. Reasoning that Damien had a busy—and no doubt disappointing—night as well, he’s probably caught up finishing goodbyes at the gala. He’ll get back to me in the morning.