“A wedding date turned you into an escort?”
“She’d recently broken up with her boyfriend, who also happened to be the best man. She was the maid of honor. To say it was awkward is an understatement. Since she was still upset, she was anxious about seeing him. I offered to go as her date and do everything to make her ex regret leaving her. I did just that.”
“You pretended to date her? And no one caught on?” This has my curiosity piqued, considering the agreement I’d made with Julian.
“I suppose you could say I’m a good actor. But I was a good actor because I knew how important this was to her. And it worked. During the entire ceremony and reception, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. He even suggested they give the relationship another shot. But after one weekend with me, after I spent the time to treat her the way I believed she deserved to be treated, she realized what she felt for her ex wasn’t love. That she deserved so much more from a relationship than a guy who refused to support her dreams.”
There’s something in his tone, almost like he’s silently asking if his story sounds familiar. And it does. Then again, he could be making it up to get me to sympathize with what he does for a living.
“So how did one wedding date turn into a career of empowering women, as you like to put it?” I ask, not wanting to dwell on my recent breakup with Trevor.
“Not long after that weekend, I started getting other requests to accompany more women to important events, mostly weddings. Now, over fifteen years later, it’s evolved into more than accompanying them for a weekend wedding. Some women hire me for a month at a time to help them through a difficult time in their lives. As you’ve found out, you can’t run an Internet search and book me. It’s all by referral. My clients require a certain level of privacy, as do I. What keeps me in business is the fact that the only people who know who I am are my clients. To everyone else, I’m simply an old friend of the family or wealthy donor to whatever cause the family is championing at the moment.”
“And no one’s put the pieces together?”
“I do believe that’s another question, Miss Fitzgerald.”
“No. Simply a necessary follow-up.”
There’s a lightness in his tone when he answers. “I like you. I have a feeling I’m going to enjoy talking to you.”
“So you agree to do the story?”
“I swore I’d never do this, but there’s something about you that intrigues me, so yes, I’ll agree.”
“And I can publish what you tell me?”
“Unless I tell you it’s off the record. And I’ll require strict approval before it’s printed. This is non-negotiable. Under no circumstances are you to reveal any information that may allow people to figure out my true identity. My anonymity is all I have, the only thing that keeps me doing this.”
“Absolutely. Not a problem.” I can’t help but beam, my eyes lighting up. I want to dance, shout, tell the world I was somehow able to get August Laurent to agree to have a story written about him. I have no idea what angle this will take, but from this brief conversation, I get the feeling he’s interesting enough that any angle will have women flocking to read the article.
“On that, I’ll let you get on with your day. I always say to leave on a high note. And I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything as beautiful as the smile on your face right now.”
A warmth spreads through me at his words. It takes me a minute to grasp the hidden meaning. When I do, I shoot up, my heart racing as I feverishly scan the crowded coffee shop for any man on his phone.
“Have a good day, Buttercup.”
“Wait!” I beg, but my plea is met with silence. I look at my screen to see the call’s been disconnected. I hastily gather my things, shoving them into my bag, when a woman wearing the café’s uniform approaches.
“For you, miss.” With a smile, she places a white plate containing a chocolate hazelnut pastry on my table. “Enjoy. It’s our most popular item.”
I frown. “I didn’t order this.”
“A gentleman did. Requested it be sent to you.”
“Who?” I ask frantically, my voice bordering on desperation.
She stands on her toes, trying to peer over the heads filling the busy coffee shop. Then she inhales a breath, pointing toward the doors.
“That’s him. Right there. Brown hair. Sunglasses. Gorgeous suit.”
“Thank you!” Adrenaline pumping through me, I sling my bag over my shoulder, dashing through the coffee shop, trying to keep him in my line of vision. When I step onto the sidewalk, a body slams into me, causing me to lose my balance, propelling me forward onto my hands and knees.
“Watch where you’re going next time, lady. Fucking tourists.”
“I’m not a tourist, asshole!” I shout, getting back on my feet, no thanks to anyone walking by. Dusting myself off, grateful the only injury is to my ego, I scan the bodies passing, not one of them matching that of the man I observed leaving the café.
Frustration fills me. I was so close to unmasking the August Laurent. Still, I know more about him than I did an hour ago. But now I’m desperate for even more information, to find out what makes him tick, why he feels the need to hire himself out as a companion. He says he empowers women. That’s a reason they hire him. I want to know his reasons, too.
As I’m about to head toward Central Park to see if he went in that direction, even though I know it’s probably futile, my phone pings with an alert. It’s not unusual. I get dozens of emails every hour. But something makes me pull my phone out of my bag and open my email.
To: Evie Fitzgerald
From: August Laurent
Subject: Special Place in Hell
Dear Miss Fitzgerald,
You do realize there’s a special place in hell for people who walk away from the Steam Room’s famous chocolate hazelnut pastries. They are quite…sinful.
Kindest regards,
A
Smiling, I type a reply as I walk, no longer frantic about finding him now that I have his email address.
To: August Laurent
From: Evie Fitzgerald
Subject: Already Going
Dear August,
I’m already going to hell. I figure either go big or go home. So I’m going big, starting with leaving that pastry on the table. In my experience, delayed gratification only heightens that first taste.
E
I hit send, unsure what came over me to act so bold. I suppose we all feel a level of power behind the safety of a computer or, in my case, a phone, which pigs again.
To: Evie Fitzgerald
From: August Laurent
Subject: Deal with the Devil
Dear Miss Fitzgerald,
Now I’m intrigued as to what you’ve done to have earned a ticket on the proverbial Highway to Hell. And even more intrigued by your interest in delayed gratification.
I hope you have a productive Monday. I’ll be in touch soon and we can continue our conversation…speaking of delayed gratification.
A
Damn. He’s smooth.
Chapter Seventeen
My eyes are transfixed out the window of the town car on Wednesday as Julian’s driver, Reed, maneuvers along narrow streets where the wealthiest members of society play for the summer. High hedges and security gates prevent the outside world from peeking in, but it doesn’t stop me from gawking at the sprawling estates that pop up every quarter-mile. The closer to the shore we get, the larger and more impressive the properties. This is some serious money.