Chapter 47
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Cleo
Balthazar looked more Parisian than brasseries in Paris, with faded saffron walls, a tin ceiling, and antique lights.
Jack was waiting for me at the zinc bar in a crisp white button-down under a navy sports jacket and dark-wash jeans, looking like his handsome, cavalier self.
I shoved Gabriel out of my head and focused on Mission Fun .
“Well, hello there,” I said, giving Jack an appreciative once-over as I sidled up to him, pretending we’d never met. “Come here often?”
“Well, hello to you too.” He leaned his hip against the bar and appraised me. “I’m a regular. How about you?”
“First time. I’m not as fancy as you.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.” His gaze roamed down my legs. “Those are some sexy shoes you’ve got there. I have a place right around the corner.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Wanna get out of here?”
I stifled a laugh and put my hand on his chest, giving him a little shove. “I’m not that kind of girl.”
He stroked his jaw then held up his hands. “Okay, I’ll tell you what. How about I buy you dinner first? Drink up.” I laughed as he held his martini glass to my lips.
I took a sip then reared back, pulling a face that made him laugh. If we weren’t in a public place, I would spit it out. Unfortunately, I had to swallow it down.
“What is that?” I reached for his glass of water and guzzled it, trying to wash down the taste of green olives.
“A dirty martini. Gin and olive brine. I take it you’re not a fan?”
“The gin is fine,” I said, fishing the lemon slice out of his water and sucking on it. “It’s just the olives I have an issue with.”
“Have olives done you dirty?”
“They did me so dirty that I’ll never eat olives again.”
One time when I was on tour with Gabriel, we got food poisoning and spent the whole night running to the bathroom to throw up.
So romantic. I don’t actually know if it was food poisoning or a stomach virus, but we’d been at a bar earlier and I’d eaten a plate of green olives.
Now I couldn’t even look at a green olive without feeling nauseous.
But I remember the next morning when we were lying in bed, pale and shaky, feeling truly disgusting, and Gabriel looked over at me and said, “I feel like shit.”
I’d groaned. “Tell me about it.”
“No. I mean, I should have held back your hair. I should have done that for you.”
And I thought that was one of the sweetest things he’d ever said to me. That he would even think of something like that when he was suffering just as much as I was…well, that was just Gabriel.
The ma?tre d’ told us our table was ready, right this way, and just in the nick of time. I didn’t want to spend my whole night tripping down memory lane.
Jack escorted me to the table with his hand on the small of my back and I squeezed between two tables and slid into the red leather banquette across from him.
The tables were small and right on top of each other, but the room was large and buzzy, like a bustling train station with soft lighting that made everyone look gorgeous.
Over chilled white wine and fruits de mer, an enormous silver seafood tower with raw oysters and shellfish, I told Jack the entire plot of a movie I went to see in London a few months ago.
“I’m telling you this because you look so much like Jude Law, the actor who played Dickie Greenleaf that I think our waiter actually thinks you are Dickie Greenleaf. ” Another Dick. I laughed to myself.
“Thanks for clearing that up. I thought you were just trying to spoil the movie for me.” He arched his brows. “Or was it a cautionary tale?”
“Poor Dickie,” I said with a sigh. “The price you pay for being a millionaire playboy. Be careful out there.”
“It’s a jungle. Speaking of which, you were off to Bali the last time I saw you. How was it?”
“Magical. I did a lot of yoga and meditating in the jungle,” I said, guiding a piece of lobster to my mouth. “And you were off to LA. How did the Santa Monica hotel turn out?”
“Magical,” he joked. “I kept hoping you’d surprise me with a visit. I even named one of the rooms after you. Babalicious,” he deadpanned.
I doubled over laughing. “That is truly horrible. And you are such a dirty liar. You were dating that model.”
“And you were still in love with your ex. Have you gotten over him yet?”
I shrugged one shoulder and lowered my eyes. “Of course. It’s been three years.”
“Ahh yes, the magical three. And yet, you’re still very single and very much available. How do you explain that?”
“I’m selective.”
“I’m flattered.”
“Not to be confused with easy,” I warned.
“I would never.” He leaned across the table. “Oyster?”
After dinner, we went to a bar with antiqued mirrors and soft lighting.
I don’t know if Jack tugged me off my bar stool or if I slid off the bar stool of my own accord, but I found myself standing between his legs, kissing him. His hands were in my hair and his tongue was in my mouth and he was such an expert kisser that it was no wonder I kept going back for more.
Mmm, he smelled so good. Like warm spice and bergamot. Sexy and seductive. I would happily do the backstroke in a vat of his scent.
I pulled back but kept my arms around his neck. “We’re making out in a bar.”
“Like two high school kids. How shameful,” he said, gripping my hips and tugging me closer.
We started kissing again.
It was so much easier to forget all your problems when you were slightly tipsy and getting high on someone’s kisses.
Jack tasted good, like aged whiskey. He was so pretty I could cry. And in some alternate universe, he would be the guy of my dreams.
But in this universe, the ethereal, haunting, shivers-down-your-spine voice of my estranged husband cut straight through my little fantasy world and brought me back down to earth, unceremoniously dumping a bucket of ice water over my head.
Suddenly, Jack’s kisses left me cold.
I pulled away so abruptly that the backs of my thighs collided with the bar stool. I tripped over my heels and would have fallen on my ass if Jack hadn’t caught me and set me back on my feet.
I gritted my teeth and smacked my palm on the bar as I slumped on my stool, defeated.
Not even the chatter around us or the glasses clinking drowned out the sound of Gabriel’s voice. The longest song in the world just kept on playing.
It was the song Gabriel wrote for me. The one I’d listened to in my bedroom before destroying the cassette tape. The first song on his first album. The song that used to make women scream and cry whenever he performed it.
They used to wait for him backstage and outside his hotel. Screaming his name. Trying to touch him and get as close to him as humanly possible. But he’d never once succumbed to temptation.
I always thought that proved how strong and unbreakable our love was. To withstand the pressures of being on the road, the distance, and the time apart, the lure of drugs and women, was a testament to our devotion to each other.
I truly believed we would be together forever.
When someone leaves you, you’re not mourning the past. You’re mourning the future that you could have had.
“What are the chances?” Jack said, laughing then sighing as he shot a look of accusation at the speakers.
Gabriel. The ultimate cockblock. “Unfortunately, better than average.”
“Remember the model?” I nodded. “She used to play this song on repeat. One time I caught her crying and asked what was wrong. And she said, ‘No one has ever loved me like that.’ The next day we broke up.”
I downed the rest of my drink and set the glass on the oak bar. “If it’s any consolation, that kind of love doesn’t last.”