Back at work, I’m folding some dress shirts in the men’s department when a customer asks me to look up a sweater in a particular size. I take the item from his hands and head to the register. Distracted with my mind in Paris, I bump into a solid chest.
“Beg your pardon,” I apologize as I look up, beginning to move away.
The moment my eyes land on the man standing in front of me, I swear my heart stops beating momentarily. The world feels as though it stops spinning, and everything hangs in complete stillness.
“Blaire?”
Weak in the knees, I feel like I’m about to pass out. “Hello, Lawrence.”
Lawrence
STANDING IN FRONT OF ME is the woman who still haunts me in my dreams.
“Hello. I see that some things haven’t changed,” I say, attempting to smile but even that smile tastes bitter on my tongue.
She flinches as a blush rich in color spreads across her porcelain skin. Blaire, enchantress and tormentor, remains so beautiful even after all this time. “Actually, I work here.”
Surprised at her response, I begin to notice small changes in her appearance that at first didn’t register in my mind. Her long black hair is out of place, her clothes a little shabby, the color faded, and a pink watch on her wrist. But it’s the soft light in her eyes that arrests my attention. The hard, cynical look is missing.
And she takes my breath away.
Gone is the girl with the embittered smile that never quite reached her eyes. There’s no hardness left in her womanly body. She’s a stranger who is far lovelier than her counterpart ever was.
“Forgive me for assuming that—”
“No need to apologize, Lawrence.” She lowers her gaze to the floor, depriving me of seeing her face. It makes me want to rage, to take her in my arms and beg her not to ever look away from me again. I’ve gone so long without it already.
“You haven’t forgiven me, have you?” she asks sadly, the words almost whispered.
Instinctively, I reach out to touch her but stop myself just in time. I lower my hand, burying it in my pocket. “The past belongs in the past.” I’ve forgiven you, but I haven’t been able to forget you.
She remains silent.
“Have lunch with me.” The words come out unbidden from somewhere deep inside me as I stare at her profile, willing her to make eye contact with me.
She looks up then. Her eyes widen in surprise. “I can’t.”
I’m a fucking fool. What did I expect? That she would come running into my arms? “I see … Well, it was great seeing you. I better go—”
“But I can do dinner,” she adds quickly.
Blaire
I arrive at a small Italian restaurant of Lawrence’s choice. There can’t be more than ten tables. I stand on my tiptoes and look for him, finding him sitting all the way at the back, away from the crowd. When our eyes connect, we both smile at the same time. He stands as I make my way to him. Even after all this time, my heart still skips a beat at the sight of his rare smiles.
Lawrence places a hand on the small of my back as he leans in and kisses my cheek. The moment his mouth comes into contact with my skin, a shiver runs down my spine. Funny how my body hasn’t forgotten what it’s like to be touched by him.
“Sorry I’m late … I had to unpack some of my suitcases to find something decent to wear.”
A waiter comes over to take my coat, but Lawrence dismisses him. “Allow me.” His fingers brush my bare shoulders as he helps me. He takes the chair in front of me and pulls it out. “You look beautiful,” he says, his voice a caress as I sit down.
“Thank you.” Suddenly feeling extremely nervous, I reach for the menu and go over it. It gives me the perfect excuse not to look him in the eye.
He pulls the menu away, his hand settling on top of mine. “Don’t be afraid, Blaire. Not of me,” he adds huskily.
Swiftly, I lift my eyes and meet his stare. “It’s not that … I’m nervous.”
“Why?”
I focus on his tanned hand on mine, and it’s turns out to be a mistake. Because as I do, memories of how intimately that hand has touched me, how well it knows every part of my body, flood my mind. “Why am I nervous, he asks?” I repeat incredulously. “Do you really have to ask?”
He has the decency to laugh. “Why don’t we order some wine first, and then you can tell me the reason behind the suitcases?”
“I’d like that.”
Over dinner, I begin to loosen up around him, even though he watches me in a way that makes me flush under his gaze. We discuss my plans in Paris, and his work. School. New projects. Life. The future. We talk about everything and nothing at all, always avoiding Ronan and the past. Always avoiding our last encounter.
Soon we fall back into the old ways where he reclines his back on the chair twirling the red wine in his glass while I do most of the chatting. In no time, we’re back to being dear friends.
While taking a sip, I seize the opportunity to admire him unabashedly. Time hasn’t changed Lawrence Rothschild. No. He’s as lethally attractive as the first moment I set eyes on him. Every pore, every atom in his body is wired with virility.