Resigned, I make my way to the lounge—which I’m grateful I have access to. I’m also thankful there was a first-class seat available on this flight. Eighteen hours on a plane in coach would’ve been a form of torture. I’m tall, and not particularly narrow, so anything over four hours in cramped seating leads to all kinds of muscles seizing up.
I order a coffee and browse the menu. At this odd hour, I feel like breakfast. While I’m waiting for my eggs Benedict to arrive I check emails. Ursula, my assistant, has forwarded all the information I requested on the hotels I’ll be visiting. I guess it’s good I have eighteen hours in which I’ll be stuck in a seat, unable to go anywhere but the bathroom, to review it all.
I spend the next twenty minutes reading emails, only breaking long enough to inhale the eggs Benny and request a coffee refill. My plates have been cleared, apart from the coffee cup, and I’m considering a bloody Mary since boarding is still another thirty minutes away, when the clip of heels draws my gaze toward the lounge entrance. Amalie freezes when she sees me. For a second I think she might turn around and bolt again, but I push out the club chair next to mine with my foot. She sighs, but takes the offer, dropping into the chair.
Her eyes are puffy and so are her lips. Has she spent the last half hour locked in the bathroom crying? “Are you okay?”
“I think the answer to that question is probably obvious.” She gestures to her face, then shakes her head. Her smile is soft but strained. “Shall we just pretend I’m fine and that everything between Saturday and just now didn’t happen?”
“Sure.” I don’t want to push her to talk, but her being here and Armstrong’s absence has me curious as to what exactly happened between my putting her in that car with Ruby and now.
She fingers a sugar packet from the table, that small smile lifting fractionally. “Thank you. Again.”
I lean back in my chair, giving her space. “Anytime. I’m the king of avoidance.”
The noise she makes is somewhere between a laugh and a huff. It’s much better than tears. I can handle tears just fine, but I’d prefer to make her smile, if at all possible.
Despite the hour, she orders a bottle of champagne when the server comes around to check on our table.
“Why don’t you get something to eat with that?” I suggest before the server can leave.
She makes a face. “I’m not hungry.”
“You can’t just drink champagne.” At least I wouldn’t suggest it.
Her smile is patronizing. “Sure I can. And you’re going to watch me.”
I bite back a reply referencing what she said to me in the bridal suite, thinking it’s too early to make a joke out of it, and place another order identical to the one I just consumed, as well as a coffee refill, and a glass of orange juice for Amalie, in case she’d like to make very expensive mimosas, or simply dilute the alcohol she feels compelled to consume.
“I assume this is a business trip for you,” she says once the waiter leaves.
“It is, a bit unexpected, but not unwelcome.” I suppose one positive out of this is knowing with absolute certainty that her being here without Armstrong means he won’t have an opportunity to come up with some creative excuse for his behavior.
“Oh? Is everything okay?” Her concern is strangely genuine. Or maybe it isn’t strange, but the situation and our circumstances, along with the events from the wedding, make it that way.
“Everything’s fine.”
The right side of her mouth quirks up. “Fine is what people say when they don’t want to tell you the truth.”
“You told me you were fine earlier.”
“And I was lying, just like you are now.” She flips the sugar packet between her fingers, maybe so she has something to focus on that isn’t me.
“That’s a little hypocritical, don’t you think? Why should I tell you the truth when you won’t give me the same courtesy?”
Her gaze lifts for a brief moment, her sadness almost palpable. “Because you already know the reason why I’m not fine. You were there.”
Our server interrupts, and her expression morphs into polite relief as he presents her with the bottle of champagne. At her nod, he pops the cork and pours her a sample. I decline when it’s offered to me.
He waits for her to take a sip and voice her approval before he tops up her glass and leaves us alone again. Her eyes flutter closed and she sighs, her smile rueful as she takes another, more robust sip. Actually it’s more of a gulp. “So?” she asks.
“So?” I’m too busy watching her tongue drag across her lip to remember what her question is.
“Why are things fine?”
“I suppose for the same reason things are fine for you right now.”
She pauses with her glass halfway to her mouth, brow furrowed in confusion. She really is absolutely stunning, even with the puffy, slightly bloodshot eyes. “How so?”
“My date created the problem and I have an interesting history with Armstrong that may lead some to think I orchestrated what happened, so getting away from the gossip is for the best.” I take a sip of my coffee. It’s too hot and burns the roof of my mouth, but it prevents me from elaborating further.
“Are you being punished?” She seems appalled and possibly guilt-stricken at the idea.
“Not at all. My aunt likes to cause drama, as does my cousin, so I’m avoiding it.” I add a packet of sugar to my coffee. “Anyway, this trip is necessary regardless, and the timing happens to be good for avoiding additional conflict, so I’m taking a break from New York. Don’t feel too bad for me, I get to spend the next several weeks in a luxury hotel.”
I’m rewarded with a sweet little laugh. It’s pretty, but I can hear the note of bitterness tainting the sound. Amalie finishes her first glass of champagne and pours herself another. Thankfully her food arrives.
She acts as if someone dropped a dead body in front her when the waiter tries to set the plate down. “No, no, no. That’s not for me. That’s for him.”
I let the server know it’s fine. “I’ve already eaten.”
Amalie leans as far back in her chair as she can and gestures to the plate, absolutely horror-stricken. “I can’t eat this.”
“Do you have food allergies?” I hadn’t considered that as a possibility.
“No.”
“You don’t like eggs?”
“No. I mean yes, I like eggs.” She starts playing with her hair, twisting the end around her finger.
“But not hollandaise sauce?”
“Well yes, I like that, too.” She drops her hands and clasps them together.
“Are you a vegetarian? You can’t eat ham?” They served filet mignon at the wedding, so I’m doubtful this is the case.
“I can eat ham.” Her gaze drops to the meal in front of her, longing reflected in her eyes. The kind I’d like to see directed at me, in a similar scenario to the one I experienced recently, but not resulting from desperation.
“So, what’s the problem?”
“It’s not on my diet.”
I have to strain to catch her whispery voice, so I assume I’ve heard her incorrectly. “Did you say diet?”
She shrinks back, maybe because of my tone. I don’t mean to sound harsh, but seriously, Amalie has a rocking body. She’s likely the star of many male fantasies, and as much as she shouldn’t be, she’s had occasion to be the star of mine.