45. Shannon
CHAPTER 45
SHANNON
The playful knock at my suite door is a hit of deja vu that makes me feel faint.
Taking one last look at myself in the mirror, I open the door to my past.
“Francois, please come in.”
He looks shockingly the same. A few more grey hairs, but I I think they’re deliberately allowed to be there, and others have been dyed away. The same is probably true for the slight lines at the corners of his eyes. The best work in the world, allowing him to age on his own terms.
His brows tug together in confusion. “You aren’t dressed for dinner.”
I take a deep breath. “I can’t go with you tonight. I’m so sorry for changing my mind, and reaching out to you in the first place. It was all a mistake.”
He glances at my hair and make up. “But you started to get ready, yes?”
“Yes.”
He holds out his arms. “My beautiful girl, it has been a long time. But we are friends, no?”
“I like to think so.” But I don’t go in for the offered hug. “You look…great.”
“I know.” He moves past me into the suite and gestures at the couch. “May I?”
“Of course. Can I get you a drink?”
“What are you having?”
“New York’s finest tap water.”
He laughs. “Find me a glass of wine.”
I bought a bottle yesterday, one of his favourites, when I thought this would go differently. I open it and decide to pour two glasses after all.
“So, what is going on, hmm? The last I heard, you were married to a very talented hockey player.”
“And the last I heard, you were looking for very talented hockey players for your new league.”
“Ah. I wondered.” He takes a sip of wine. “Was it your idea or his? To reach out to me?”
“His.”
“He knows you are hard to resist.”
I wave at my jeans and flannel shirt. “I do my best.”
“A fancy gown or a country hunting outfit, it makes no difference to me. It’s all very nice draped over a chair in the corner.”
I blush.
“Speaking of which, I bought a hunting lodge in Scotland.”
At the unexpected mention of Russell’s home country, I jolt. “Why?”
“Why not?”
And I suppose for billionaires, it is just that simple. Real estate is an investment. An apartment in New York, a lodge in Scotland, a compound in the Middle East. Wherever Francois does business, he needs a place to sleep.
And fuck.
“Maybe I’ll visit you there someday,” I say around the lump in my throat. “With a friend?”
“Not your husband?”
I shake my head. “Not my husband.”
As we drink our wine, I tell him almost everything. I leave out the most intimate details between me and Russ. The conversation on the dock. How hard it was to say goodbye when we left the cottage. The bone-deep aching pain, knowing I was leaving with the wrong person.
But in broad strokes, I confess to my old friend how I fell in love with someone, maybe for the first time.
“I don’t know what comes next.”
“Does he want to play in the Ice League?”
I laugh at the suggestion. “Russ? I don’t know. Probably not. He wouldn’t want me to ask you, anyway.”
“But your husband not only wanted you to ask me, he blackmailed you into doing so.” He shrugs. “Ma chérie, the choice could not be more clear.”
“I really don’t want to be married to him for another year.”
He glances at his watch. “Then I suggest you remove yourself to the bedroom and change into something appropriate so I can introduce you to some powerful people in the American Foreign Service. I’ve heard they can be helpful at times.”
“Helpful to billionaires, yes. Small town girls from Michigan who want a divorce, not so much.”
“Du pareil au même.” He smiles. “It’s all the same when you’re on my arm.”
Francois doesn’t come straight out and ask anyone if they can help me get a divorce. It’s much more subtle than that. He makes sure they know my name. He makes sure they know I’m an old friend. And he gets their assurance that if I run into any difficulties as an ex-pat living in Canada on a spousal visa, I can use their name with the consulate.
“The Foreign Service can grease a lot of wheels, right?” He says it over and over again, and each time I want to cry, because I was willing to spread my legs to get this man to help Max, when really I should have known that he would have helped me for absolutely nothing.
Kiley’s point about friendship not being contingent on anything rings through my mind.
Francois is also delighted that I know Livy already, and insists I must come to France with her at some point soon.
“I won’t be able to afford that soon,” I point out. And I hold up my hands. “Which is how it’s just going to have to be. It’s time for me to learn how to be self-sufficient.”
“I can’t offer you a job as my muse emeritus?”
I tip my head back and laugh.
When I look at him again, still smiling, there’s a spark of heat in his eyes. But it’s restrained, as if he understands that there’s no corresponding fire burning in my belly to take him back to The Lyle tonight.
He brushes a loose strand of hair off my cheek. “When are you flying home?”
“The day after tomorrow. I’m going to take a day to do all of my favourite things in the city. And then I’m going to go home and find a cozy little one-bedroom apartment to move into.”
He looks visibly pained at the thought of a cozy anything. “Sounds…”
“Provincial?” I fill in lightly.
“Not the word I was reaching for,” he murmurs.
And I laugh again. It’s a deep belly laugh, and it feels good.
Shannon Barker is back, and better than ever.
After dinner, he asks me to dance. I join him for one song, and it’s very nice. But as his hand strokes my bare spine, I realize there is somewhere else I need to be.
“Would you mind if I duck out early?”
“Not at all. Do you want to use my car?”
We’re down in the Bowery, not far from the East Village, but my hotel is all the way up on the Upper East Side. I wouldn’t be the first girl to get on the subway in a fancy dress, though. And besides, I’m not ready to go back to the hotel just yet. “Thank you, but no. I need to find Livy.”
The incoming ambassador’s daughter is just across the dance floor. When I catch her eye, she twirls right over.
“Are you having fun?” she asks breathlessly.
“I had fun. Now I want to get out of here. Can you recommend any tattoo places that might do a walk-in tonight?”