CHAPTER 23
Leo
We pull up and I burst out laughing. ‘You’re joking?’
The event is at La Cavalerie. Of course it is. Where else is there to be during Roland-Garros?
George winks at me, smirking before his solemn public facade returns, and steps out onto the ‘clay’ carpet, turning back to offer me a hand.
This morning feels a million miles away as I take it.
The noise outside is deafening; the incessant clicking of cameras, bright lights, fans and paparazzi alike shouting his name.
I need a moment to steady myself as the onslaught of flashes momentarily startles me. I look up for reassurance to find him looking away. His face cold, hard. He’s not my George.
‘My’ George? Where did that come from? I shake my head.
Christ, Leo. It’s been one kiss. OK, two, maybe three, was it?
Well, multiple kisses. And some serious groping.
But now suddenly he’s mine? Talk about moving too fast. He did invite me tonight though and said I looked beautiful.
He couldn’t stop touching me either. He bought these exquisite earrings – god knows how much they cost; I wonder if he picked them out himself?
And the way he knelt in front of me, oh that was hot.
And his lips, his tongue, fuck. He drives me crazy.
I need to get back some control. Why am I the only one who—
‘Leo?’ he says gruffly. Interrupting my thoughts. ‘You OK?’
He halts my inner monologue, carried away by a stream of overthinking, and I blink, coming back to reality with a nod.
He whispers, ‘Shall we?’
It’s completely overwhelming and I just want to get inside. I think to myself, ‘This is what he has to deal with?’ I shudder but nod again, forcing my feet to move.
Rosa’s advice pops into my mind. I had texted her a selfie of me getting my hair and make-up done earlier, then a mirror picture in my dress and heels once I was ready to go and the team had left.
Rosa Riley:
Ermmmm Leo
You look incredible!
Leo James:
It’s Louis Vuitton.
I think I get to keep it . . .
You sure it’s ok?
Rosa Riley:
Ok? I bloody fancy you.
George must be losing his mind.
Leo James:
He hasn’t seen me yet.
Rosa. He’s going to be in black tie . . .
Rosa Riley:
A posh boy in black tie, your kryptonite.
Oh, and he’s a pro tennis player.
Who happens to be a 10/10.
You’re the one who won’t survive.
Leo James:
Am I that predictable?
Rosa Riley:
Yes. Sorry babe.
It’s not going that badly then?
I had spoken to Rosa after this morning, freaking out that I’d made a complete fool out of myself. After multiple screams and ‘I told you so’s, she’d kindly reminded me to just enjoy it and stop overthinking everything. As if it were that easy!
But I understood her point. I did have a tendency to get caught up in my head.
I’d been moving from cafe to cafe for most of the day, avoiding our suite, before coming to the conclusion that I had to put a stop to it all and remain professional moving forward. This was a bad idea. A mistake. I had made my decision.
Which lasted all of five minutes in George’s presence.
Leo James:
No, it’s really not. He asked me to join him tonight. After we made out again.
My top came off.
I touched his . . .
You know how it is.
Rosa Riley:
You naughty girl. I love it!
So, tell me, what’s this evening?
Leo James:
It’s a Louis Vuitton party. Not sure where. He won’t tell me.
Rosa Riley:
Paps?
Leo James:
Probably. Horrible.
Rosa Riley:
Remember, deep breaths. Chin down, don’t smile with too much teeth and make sure your hands aren’t weird. Practise in the mirror before you go.
Leo James:
Rosa! Now I’m nervous.
Rosa Riley:
Leo, you’re a bombshell, especially in that.
Just relax and be yourself, you’ll be fine.
Have to go. I’m in London this evening.
Leo James:
Ok, anything fun?
Rosa Riley:
Not really. Will tell you tomorrow.
Love you, you’ll be ok!!
Leo James:
Love you xxx
I navigate my entry with little drama, stopping for the odd photo.
Luckily most of the attention is behind me, as everyone focuses on George.
He’s taken on his strong and silent persona, working overtime for the camera, his jaw clenched, eyes dark.
Moody, sexy. A glimmer of power seems to have returned, his presence commanding the crowd, drawn by all the commotion outside.
In the sea of people, I catch a glimpse of a homemade ‘Mr Darcy’ poster, surrounded by a heart.
I chuckle to myself and make my way inside, eager to leave the carpet.
After an extortionately long wait for the lift, we step into the main room and I audibly gasp.
It’s totally different to this morning. The huge court has been transformed, with various orange LV-branded balls decorating corners, hanging from the ceiling.
The Roland-Garros trophy is centre stage, gleaming in the dim light, music pumping from a DJ booth in the corner, also bright orange with a white LV tennis ball logo.
There’s a lot of orange. Everywhere. It gives the room a bit of a warm glow.
The event is in full swing and I look around, taking it in. Even through work, I’ve never been to anything like it before. The most elite tennis players are here mixing with celebrities, politicians, even royalty. Everyone. It’s a who’s who.
I feel incredibly out of place, but shove those thoughts to the back of my mind. They won’t help with confidence. I remember how George was speechless when he saw me, Rosa telling me I’m a bombshell. I shouldn’t rely on others for my self-confidence, but sometimes you need a little boost.
‘Drink?’ George asks, pointing to the bar at the side.
They’re serving mini gin martinis, tiny tennis balls replacing the olive. Cute. ‘Yes, please.’
He takes one and hands it to me. ‘Tennis and martinis. Killer combo, I’ve heard.’ He hides a smile and I take a sip, beaming for both of us.
‘George, hello,’ Gordon interrupts. Totally ignoring me. ‘Come with me, I need you to meet someone.’
George’s expression darkens. ‘We just got here.’ Gordon turns to look, as if he’s just noticed I’m also standing with them.
‘Yes. And you’re here to work.’ George rolls his eyes, turning to walk away, huffing slightly. Gordon glances at my chest and I feel like covering up all of a sudden. ‘Apparently so are you,’ he says quietly before following him.
I’m rooted to the spot, mouth open. He didn’t outwardly say it, but I know what he’s insinuating. His comments last year about girls ‘on the game’ come back to me. Prick.
I’m quietly fuming, wondering how two brothers can be so different, when a tall figure moves next to me.
‘Hi.’ I turn and find myself looking up at Fernando Rainez. ‘May I introduce myself?’ Woah. Milly would die.
‘Mr Rainez, I know who you are.’ I smile back politely, outwardly calm but I’m buzzing inside. He’s tipped to be the next Nadal. This is huge. ‘Congratulations on your win in Madrid. You played fantastically!’
‘Gracias, and please call me Nando.’ He gives me a genuine smile. ‘And you are?’
‘Leo James.’ His dark eyelashes are ridiculous.
‘Miss James.’ He takes my hand, pressing it to his lips softly. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’ He’s smooth for a child. I hear Milly’s voice in my head, ‘He’s twenty-four!’, and giggle.
His smile broadens, encouraged. Oops.
‘You have a beautiful smile, Miss James.’ I can’t help but blush; he really is smooth, too smooth perhaps. ‘I haven’t seen you here before. I would have remembered, I’m sure. Are you with Louis Vuitton?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, a model perhaps?’ he ventures, eyes roaming my face before settling on my lips.
Oh please. I fight an eye roll. I’m not delusional. Where did he learn these pick-up lines?
‘No, not a model. I’m working with George Hampden actually, helping organize his time in Paris.’
‘Ah, I see.’ He grimaces. ‘That must be very difficult for you, no?’
What? I cover my surprise. ‘Not particularly no, why?’
‘He is very serious. Quiet. We find it difficult to speak with him in the locker rooms. Always so closed off, in the zone.’ He thinks for a second, before continuing, ‘Fantastic player though, sí! The control of his form is unmatched on the court. I have studied his tapes. My coach thinks I focus too much on flair over precision.’ He’s off, discussing the pros and cons of drop shots, and I stifle a yawn.
Last week, I would have killed for this insight, and from Rainez too! Now it’s only George who consumes my thoughts. It’s a lot but I decide to follow Rosa; stop overthinking, just do.
‘Mr Rainez, er, Nando,’ I interrupt his flow. ‘It’s been so wonderful to meet you, but I should really find George. I am supposed to be working this evening.’
‘Of course, Miss James. I am sorry for keeping you.’ He leans in to kiss my cheek. ‘I really hope to see you again? Perhaps you will come and watch me play?’ He looks earnest and I think he genuinely is a sweet boy. Just not for me.
‘Perhaps,’ I smile, extracting myself.
Who am I? Fending off advances from young hotshot tennis players. Life is fucking weird.
I look around and see George at the bar, stiff-backed and facing to the side.
I walk over slowly, taking the time to admire his profile: the high cheekbones, dark long lashes, full lips.
He’s a Renaissance painting, a marble sculpture; artists couldn’t do justice to the beautiful masculinity of his face.
Unlike ‘Nando’, there’s nothing smooth about George. He’s rough, and hotter for it.
I think of him kneeling earlier, looking up at me with those stormy eyes, and pleasure shoots through my core, wetness pooling instantly. Fuck, I need to cool it. Professional, Leo, professional.
I sigh as I reach him, tapping on his rigid shoulder.
‘George?’