My heart stammers in my chest and my mouth goes dry. Hearing this beautiful, powerful, and well-suited mogul wax poetic about my ultimate commitment is heady. I don’t know how to respond to that. My shoulders sag in forfeiture of his determination. He has me—all of me—but it would be a corny follow up to his smooth declaration.
“Mr. Jacobs, it’s time for the actual signing in the private dining room. Dawn will take you around for greetings before you go to the head of the room with the partners for the mock signing and photo opp. After which, dinner will be served and then the after party,” Shayna informs as Azmir holds me. “Ms. Brimm will be at your side, but if you…” Her eyes shift to address me directly. “…change your mind and want to wait it out during the dinner or after party portion, you can be escorted to your seat at any time until he’s done.” She returns her gaze to Azmir and I notice her invariable level of professionalism, “I’m going to check on a few things for the after party, so I’ll see you then.” Azmir nods in approval and she walks off, leaving us to Dawn and her blue strapless gown. We look like a threesome.
As we make our way to the elegant dining room, we’re offered tumblers of the night’s purpose, Mauve brandy. The velvety amber liquid is no stranger to me as I’ve indulged in a glass or two with Azmir, sipped a few swallows from his servings, and consumed countless tastes of it from his lips. I’ve even had it licked from my trembling body a time or two. With familiarity, I sip my first taste of the evening, enjoying the thick trace of spice it leaves as it courses my esophagus.
Once in the room, we’re stopped by several people greeting and congratulating Azmir. Of course, I know none of them, but a few Azmir introduces me to. One of those people is Steve Stoute. He’s polite during our introduction, but I don’t get a clear idea of who he is until I hear him speak during the opening remarks of the signing. He’s an articulate and charismatic man, who apparently has a history with Azmir and brokered the Mauve deal. He shares stories of their relationship and why he’s convinced that the partnership between Azmir and the Moreau brothers will be successful.
Here I sit, again, feeling like there are aspects of this man that I’m not privy to. I try to suppress the green-eyed monster in me as much as possible. As I glance around the table and see figures that previously, I’ve only seen in magazines, online, or on television screens, I begin to shrink. I know the man standing at the podium with other powerful beings is mine—all six feet and four inches of him, but this is all so intimidating.
Then, when my eyes go inches to the right of Azmir and land on Dawn, I feel annoyance. She’s beaming too brightly considering her role in his world. She claps too hard and enthusiastically as Azmir signs the faux contract with the golden pen. Slowly, I train my eyes back to Azmir, where they need to be, and see him gazing at me with a glimmer of sheer accomplishment that he wants me to take part in. Instinctively, a smile blooms over my face and my heart swells. He’s sharing his moment with me—privately, which is how we do things. On our own, private terms. I don’t need to be privy to his previous life. I’m his right now, and that’s all that matters.
During dinner, Azmir introduces me to Jean and Jacques Moreau, the brothers who owns the company that makes Mauve brandy. Azmir explains their need of international exposure, hence how this relationship came into play. Their French accents are thick and their body language is more feminine than that of American men, but they are absolutely straight. This is made clear by the way Jacques keeps eye-sexing me and how Jean can’t keep his hands off his wife. He’s clearly drunk.
“Mademoiselle Brimm, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m just sorry it wasn’t sooner. We couldn’t synch schedules before today,” Jacques murmurs from the left of me. “Jacobs here,” he gestures his chin in Azmir’s direction, to the right of me. “…told us he was a lucky man. Now we get to see just how lucky. Jolie femme,” he growls. I have no idea what he’s said, but I get the gist of it. And apparently so does Azmir.
“Yo, Jack, man…you better not be flirting with my girl. I will kick your pompous frog ass,” Azmir jeers—or does he?
Jacques snaps his tongue against the roof of his mouth on a pout as he cuts into his food. Then I hear a sharp whistle coming from Jean, followed by a gesturing sound made by his mouth that’s often used to call the attention of a dog.
“You two need to stop. We’re in front of company,” Jean chides and then hurls out a string of expletives in French. His eyes then shifts to me, “I guess we’re both getting papers on him, huhn?”