“You know him?”
“We went to the same boarding school in Switzerland for a while, but I don’t think he recognizes me.” She shakes her head. “Gods like him didn’t mingle with mere humans. He was a few years ahead of me, but whispers of what he could do to a woman’s body followed him everywhere. And he was just a kid then. Thinking of how he is now …” She pretends to fan herself, leaning forward as though she were going to tell me a secret. “Have you fucked him yet?”
“There’s nothing between us,” I’m quick to add, blushing and beyond uncomfortable.
“Okay,” she replies, a sly grin on her face. “If you say so. He’s quite the catch, you know? World-renowned artist, sex god extraordinaire, and independently wealthy. Dad was some kind of Wall Street King. Mom was a famous French actress. So I ask you again, how did you end up in his arms, you lucky, lucky girl?”
“I wasn’t in his arms.”
“Oh, babe. You’re so full of shit your eyes are brown.”
I stand next to her, reclining my hips against the marble counter, and bump her shoulder with mine. “You know, for an egomaniac, you notice too much.”
She has the decency to laugh.
“William is back home. And I’m here, trying to figure out my next step,” I say, suddenly feeling deflated. Being next to her brings it all back, injecting a dose of stark reality into the fantasy world I’ve been living in for the past few days.
Understanding shines in Gigi’s eyes. “I was really mad for you when Larry told me what happened. Like seriously? Fucking the intern? Couldn’t he have been less cliché?” She nods towards the door of the bathroom. “Ryan, out there. He’s my divorce gift to myself.”
My eyes widen. “Wait, what? I didn’t know you and Larry were having problems.”
“Yep. The asshole traded me for a newer model, so I upgraded too.”
I place a hand on her diamond-covered wrist. “I’m sorry, Gigi.”
She pats my hand. “Oh, don’t be sorry for me. Be sorry for Larry. My lawyers are better than his.”
We chat a little bit more about the proceedings of her divorce. If she notices I’m avoiding the subject of my own marriage, she doesn’t mention it. Besides, what is there to say? That it’s pretty much over?
We leave the bathroom and join the guys who are waiting for us in the same place. As soon as I spot Sébastien, I feel like the air is back in my lungs, and when his smiling eyes meet mine, I can breathe again. If this is wrong, I can’t bring myself to care.
Sébastien places his hand on the small of my back, touching bare skin. Possessively. Unashamedly. He claims that part of my body and my body surrenders with a shivering sigh. Leaning close to my ear, he whispers enticing words, “Want to get out of here?”
And an even more dangerous answer forms in my chest, in the back of my throat, on my tongue, in the tip of my fingers. God, yes.
“Yes.”
HE TAKES MY HAND as I pick up the front of my dress and follow him. Laughter bubbles inside me, out of me. At this moment, we are young, reckless, eternal, and alive. So fucking alive. Hair-raising electricity courses through me. He steals a champagne bottle from a passing waiter. We’re not walking anymore. We’re running past strangers, past crowds of angry people. It doesn’t matter. It all becomes a blur around me except for the solid warmth in my hand guiding me away from the darkness and towards safety like a beacon full of light.
We make it outside. Chests heaving. Street lamps bathing our surroundings in an amber haze. A tornado of happiness and exhilaration threaten to sweep me away.
I look up at the night sky full of stars shining like little diamonds. Spread my arms and twirl one or two times, feeling free. “Beautiful, aren’t they? The stars?”
“Yes, very beautiful.”
Glancing in his direction, I find him watching me closely instead. Pleasure settles deep in my core, making my entire body throb with yearning.
Sébastien brings the green bottle to his lips and chugs down some of the champagne, drinking it with gusto and pleasure. When he’s finished, he hands it to me with a secret smile in his eyes. I stare at the bottle for a second and think what-the-hell. Throwing caution and manners to the wind, I let go and reach for the champagne. And I drink, and drink, and drink. I drink as though all my life I’d been dying of thirst and this is the first time my mouth has tasted water.
“Easy there,” Sébastien says, amusement carried in his tone.
Laughing and choking a little at the same time, I hand the bottle back to him as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Sorry. That felt good,” I say, smiling shyly. “Tasted good, too.”
Sébastien goes to a garbage can to throw the empty bottle away. I watch him walk back. Deadly half smile pulling up the left corner of his mouth, hands carelessly in his pockets, hair loosely down. He’s animalistic and primitively regal, like the ruler of the animal kingdom stalking his prey, watching it cower before he takes its life. My palms begin to sweat. I’m dizzy, weak on my knees. Maybe I had too much champagne to drink?
No, it’s him.
Yes, it’s definitely him.
“La Bohème” is playing in the background, the famous tune floating out of the windows where the party is still going strong. Cars fly by. The Eiffel Tower watches us. Some pedestrians walk past.
He stops in front of me, shrugs out of his tuxedo jacket and drapes it over my bare shoulders protectively. I slip my arms in the sleeves of the jacket, enjoying the traces of warmth left over from his body and the lingering smell of his cologne. His eyes on me. The way he’s looking at me. It’s all that matters.
“I can’t offer you a dance in the rain right now. But, how about in the moonlight?” he says huskily, the lamppost bathing him in an amber haze.
Oh, Sébastien. “You were paying attention …”
“Of course, I was. When it comes to you, I always am.” An easy grin slowly spreads on his handsome face. “Now, shall we?”
My hand trembles as he takes it and places it on his chest, close to where his heart is. He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me flush against him. A gasp escapes my lips, a shiver of pleasure spreading through me.
A ball of nerves, I try smiling and making a joke out of the situation. “If I step on you, I apologize in advance. I’m terrible at this. Two-left-feet Val here. Once a guy told me that I looked prettier sitting down than—”
“I highly doubt that. Remember? The kitchen. I saw you dancing.”
“T-that was different. I didn’t—”
“Valentina …”
“Oh, yes. Right. We’re dancing.”
“More like trying to.” He chuckles when I whack him on the shoulder, the sound soft and toe-curling. “Come, put your feet on top of mine.”
“What? No, your shoes will be ruined.”