by T. K. Leigh
She sighs, leaning back in her chair. “I don’t know much more than what you’ll find online, which is next to nothing.”
“But you know everything about everyone! And didn’t you say Holly Turner hired him when she went through her divorce?”
“She never came right out and said she did, but she insinuated she spent a month in Fiji with him to escape reporters when news of her separation hit the papers.”
“That’s all? Nothing else? She must have said more than that. Anything to help me track down this guy.”
“She was pretty tight-lipped about the entire thing.” She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, sucking on it.
“What is it?” I ask urgently.
“Nothing. It’s probably nothing.”
“Or it could be something.”
Turmoil covers her expression.
“Come on, Chloe. You’re the gossip queen! You must know something!”
She sighs in resignation. “Fine, but there’s no guarantee there’s truth to any of this. All I get are bits and pieces from people.”
“Yes, but you get lots of bits and pieces, all of which could eventually fit into one puzzle.”
Rolling her chair closer to mine, her voice becomes practically inaudible. “He’s careful not to give out too much personal information to any of his clients. He makes it all about them, which I suppose is what they’re paying him for. The guy’s interested me for a few years, but with my column the way it is, I can’t stop to hunt down a ghost. Still, you hear rumors.”
“And did you hear a rumor about this mystery man sharing a piece of personal information with one of his clients that could potentially help me?” I grin wide, to which she nods.
“When Holly was here for a shoot a few months ago, we got to talking. Of course, she never mentioned who helped her through her divorce, but I read between the lines. It had to be August Laurent. She said he told her the importance of establishing a routine, some sort of normalcy in her life when it feels like it’ll never be normal again.”
I pinch my lips together, his advice resonating with me. I like having a routine when my life hasn’t been uprooted. Now, after Trevor, I crave it even more. In fact, the thought of spending a few hours updating my planner has me more excited than I’ve been in a while.
“I’d mentioned how I prefer to be spontaneous, that I doubt I could ever do the same thing every single day. She said he claimed you could find normalcy in something small. Then she shared the example he gave her.”
“And what was that?” I scribble down a few notes on my pad before looking back up at her.
“He apparently lost someone very close to him and had trouble coping with the loss. What helped was starting his day by going to the same coffee shop and ordering the same pastry. It gave him something to look forward to. To this very day, when he’s in town, he still goes to the same coffee shop and orders the same chocolate hazelnut pastry.”
She shifts her attention to her laptop, scrolling through a folder that must contain thousands upon thousands of images. Finding one, she turns the screen toward me. It’s a blurry photo of a woman in a sleek pink dress, dark sunglasses covering her eyes, her face downturned.
“Who’s that?”
“Carly Jensen. She’s rumored to have hired August Laurent.” She points to a man walking a few feet behind her, his eyes also obscured by dark sunglasses. “That man.”
I squint, trying to make out his features, but it’s impossible. Nothing about him stands out, not to mention he’s walking several feet behind Carly.
“Chloe, I—”
“Wait. There’s more.” Keeping the photo on the screen, she searches for another one. When she finds it, she clicks on it, the image similar to the previous one. Another celebrity walking on the street wearing sunglasses. Another man in a dark suit trailing behind.
“This proves nothing.”
“It may not, but it’s a start.”
I shake my head. “I don’t see how. “There’s nothing—”
“Because you aren’t looking close enough,” she interrupts. “Part of getting the scoop before anyone is being attuned to the details everyone else overlooks. Like this.”
She zooms in on the man’s hand. I squint again, faintly able to make out the familiar logo of Manhattan’s famous Steam Room etched on the coffee cup. Then she does the same to the other photo.
“Isn’t the Steam Room famous for their chocolate hazelnut pastries?” she asks, a smirk on her face.
“They are.”
“Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?” She sits back and folds her arms in front of her chest.
I stare at the two photos. It could be nothing, but it could be everything.
“I guess I know where I’ll be spending my time now.”
Chapter Seven
Over the next few weeks, I make myself a cozy little home at a corner table in the Steam Room on Fifth Avenue. Based on the sheer number of people who frequent this place, it seems to be a popular spot among locals and tourists. I’m not surprised, considering it’s located across from Central Park.
When I first concocted this plan, I didn’t think it would be too difficult to figure out who August Laurent was — note whoever ordered a chocolate hazelnut pastry every morning, then see who was a repeat offender. I underestimated how popular that particular danish is. August Laurent probably knows this, too, which was why he didn’t mind sharing this piece of personal information with his client. The entire population of Manhattan orders these damn pastries, which has made my job even more difficult. I’ve resorted to focusing on men without wedding bands whom I consider attractive enough to be a male escort. Shallow? Perhaps. But I have to narrow down the pool somehow.
On the last Thursday in June, as I sit in what’s become my satellite office, I hear a deep voice order an Americano and the chocolate hazelnut pastry. I tear my eyes away from my laptop, hope building inside me that this may be the man I’ve been looking for.
The instant I do, I inhale a sharp breath, understanding why the timbre of the man’s voice made my thighs involuntarily squeeze together. There he is… Mr. Armani Suit.
Dumbfounded at my horrible luck, all I can do is stare, although all reason tells me to look away, to hide, to pretend I have no idea who he is. What are the freaking chances? Of all the coffee shops in this city, the one person I hoped to never see again walks into this one. Then, in confirmation of my belief that the universe is out to get me, a pair of vibrant blue eyes shifts to mine, a sly smile curling his lips.
“Shit.” I lower my head and stare at my laptop screen, wishing I could disappear into the background. I’ve always loved the unique shade of my red hair…until this moment when I’d give anything to blend into a sea of blondes and brunettes.
As I pretend to read the words I’ve written over the past hour, the aroma of citrus mixed with spice invades my senses, reminiscent of the morning I woke up in a strange man’s bed. I pinch my lips together, concentrating even harder, as if it will make him disappear. Then I hear his voice — low, deep, hypnotizing.
“I thought it was you. But maybe you should get up and run away so I can be certain.” There’s dry amusement in his tone.
I reluctantly look up, about to reply with a snarky comment when I’m rendered speechless. I’d forgotten how captivating this man is. At least drunk Evie doesn’t skimp on good looks, even when she’s had a few too many. Sandy, disheveled hair. Vibrant azure eyes framed with lashes any woman would kill for. Olive skin that appears to have been kissed by the sun. Strong face with angular cheekbones. Broad nose. Two-day scruff along his jaw. And full, lush lips surrounding gleaming white teeth.
I lick my lips as I scan the rest of his frame, the navy blue suit he’s wearing just as impeccable as the one he wore the night we first saw each other. But that’s not what has my mouth salivating. It’s the memory of what lies beneath — firm muscles, intricate tattoo, and mysterious scars on his otherwise flawless physique.
“Evie?”
I snap my eyes back to his, pretending I hadn’t been ogling his body. The smirk pulling on his mouth is all the evidence I need to know he caught me in my mental undressing of him. Again.
“Hello,” I say, exuding all the confidence I can, not wanting him to realize I can’t remember his name…if he even told me. The cocky, self-assured way he carries himself gives off the impression it’s not a stretch to think he didn’t tell me his name. That he saw some drunk girl nearly passed out by his apartment and brought her up to take advantage of her.
But something about the way he gazes at me with heat and a hint of relief gives me pause. Perhaps Chloe was right when she suggested we may not have slept together. Now would be the perfect time to ask him, but I’m too embarrassed to admit I can’t remember much of that night.
“It’s good to see you again.”
He narrows his eyes, unnerving me. “Is that so? From where I’m standing, you seem…flustered.”
“Honestly, when I walked in here earlier this morning, the last thing I expected was to run into someone I made the mistake of going home with after drinking far too much. So, as much as I’ve enjoyed this awkward little reunion, you’ll have to excuse me. I have work to do.”
I return my eyes to my laptop, pretending to look incredibly busy and important. My muscles tense as I wait for him to walk away. Instead, he takes the seat across from me.
I stare at him, annoyed by his rashness. “What part of ‘get lost’ did you not understand?”
“I didn’t exactly hear you say ‘get lost’.”
“No.” I glower at him, then check over his shoulder to make sure I haven’t missed anyone who looks like he might be an escort ordering a chocolate hazelnut pastry. “I was trying to be polite. It seems manners aren’t your thing.”
“Hmm… Manners. Like saying goodbye?” He arches a brow.
“Yes.”
“It seems we both have a lesson to learn in manners then. Where I’m from, we say goodbye when we leave. Is that not customary where you grew up?”
He leans back, brushing his thumb against his lower lip. My eyes float to his mouth and I salivate at the idea of how they might taste. I squirm in my seat, hoping he doesn’t pick up on what a tangled bundle of hormones I am.
“What did you say the name of your hometown is? Hickman? Do you not say goodbye in Hickman?”
“We do,” I answer sheepishly.
He rests his elbows on the table, inching toward me. “Then why did you leave without saying goodbye?”
I open my mouth to respond, but he cuts me off.
“And don’t say because you didn’t want to wake me.”
I snap my jaw shut. His formerly arrogant expression now carries a hint of vulnerability, at complete odds with the image I’d painted of him in my mind. “Maybe because I was embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed?” He cocks his head at me. “Embarrassed about what?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I shoot back sarcastically. “Because I got raging drunk and woke up in a stranger’s bed.”
He parts his lips to say something, but I hold up my hand. Now it’s my turn to interrupt him.
“I’m sure you have no qualms about picking up drunk girls at a club or a bar and taking them home with you. What happened a few weeks ago… That’s an isolated incident. I was drunk and dealing with some personal stuff, which caused me to make the horrible decision of going home with someone I don’t even know.”
“You know who I am. I told you. My name’s Julian.”
I blink repeatedly, something about that name sparking a memory. I snap my fingers. “That’s right! Julian! Now I remember. I kept calling you Julius Caesar.” I laugh, recalling the numerous times I’d slurred “Et tu, Brute”, to which he responded that his name was “Julian not Julius”.
“You didn’t remember my name?” He appears genuinely hurt.
I shrink into myself, a momentary feeling of guilt washing over me before I brush it off.
“Listen, Julian, I appreciate you taking the time to come over to say hi and not ignore me. If I were in your shoes, I would have done just that. Hell, I tried to do that. But I’m here to work on a story that could land me a promotion.” Agitated by his presence, I fidget with my hands. “As you overheard at the bar, my boyfriend broke up with me because I’m not serious enough. So this promotion can certainly prove otherwise.”
“A story?” He gives me a wry smile, causing his dimples to pop. If he weren’t irresistible enough to begin with, he has to have dimples, too? It’s like the big guy upstairs put together everything I find attractive about a man, then gave him the opposite personality I need. And as much as looks are important, personality trumps all.
“Yes. I’m the sex and dating editor for Blush magazine.”
“But you’re up for a promotion?”
“Assistant editor of the entire magazine. As long as I nail this story.”
He peeks over my laptop at my notepad, squinting to decipher my chicken scratch. “August Laurent?”
Indignant, I cover my notepad with my hand, pulling it toward me and flipping it over so he can’t see. “He’s the subject of my story.”
He doesn’t react. I take his silence for confusion.
“He’s the most sought-after escort in the country. Apparently, he lives right here in Manhattan,” I explain. “No one’s been able to nail down this guy for an interview, so that’s what I’m trying to do. My sources say he frequents this place, so if you’ll excuse me…” I lock eyes with him, hoping he gets the hint that I have no desire to continue this conversation.
Finally, after a stare down that feels like it lasts hours, he reluctantly gets up. “Well, I’ll leave you to your work.”
“Thank you.” I reach for my coffee, taking a long sip, trying to calm my overwrought nerves. The last thing I need is to be distracted and miss spotting the man who could be the mysterious August Laurent.
“For the record…” When I hear Julian speak, I lift my head, meeting his sincere eyes. “It was nice to see you again, Evie.” His lips curve up at the corners. “Really nice.” Then he disappears into another section of the coffee shop.
Chapter Eight
I can’t get Julian out of my mind the rest of the morning, despite a valiant effort on my part to do so. Every time I think of his sapphire eyes and the earnestness in his voice when he confessed he was happy to see me, my body heats as my stomach erupts in flutters I haven’t experienced in too long now.
Whenever I consider the possibility that maybe there’s something more there, I remind myself it’s all part of his game. Men like Julian crave the chase. Once they’ve captured their prey, they’ll either destroy it in a way that makes it unrecognizable, or release it back into the wild with the hope of finding something tastier, perkier, younger. I’m too smart to allow Julian to capture me again.
Since my focus is essentially nonexistent, thanks to one Julian…whatever his last name is, I decide to call today a loss and return tomorrow, refreshed and rejuvenated. After collecting my things and shoving them into my laptop bag, I do like all New Yorkers do and check my social media on my phone to avoid eye contact as I head out of the coffee shop, paying no attention to the couple walking in.
“Evie.” It’s not a question. More like a statement of surprise.
I lift my head, admiring the long, sleek lines of the suit-clad body, sucking in a breath when I peer into a pair of familiar hazel eyes. Eyes that once looked at me with such devotion as the owner declared his love. I swallow hard through the lump in my throat at the comfort I once felt whenever I peered into them. Now I only feel inadequate.
“Trevor…,” I breathe, unsure what else to say.
“Hey.” He looks as uneasy about our unexpected meeting as I do.
I’ve been living in our apartment the past few weeks, but we haven’t seen each other. Every night, I prepared a dinner plate for him, thinking he’d be hungry whenever he got home fr
om the office, yet I was always asleep when that happened. By the time I woke up in the morning, Trevor would already be gone, his plate in the dishwasher. It probably sounds like nothing, but the gesture fills me with hope that this separation won’t last. That he’ll see how much he needs me in his life.
Until I see the woman clinging to his arm, their hands intertwined. If seeing him for the first time since he broke up with me isn’t hard enough, now I have to look at him while another woman holds his hand, feels his skin, enjoys his warmth. That’s supposed to be my hand, my skin, my warmth.
When a throat clearing sounds, Trevor tears his eyes from mine, looking at the petite woman at his side. She can’t be more than five-foot-two, and probably a perfect size two. She’s pretty, I suppose, but nothing stands out that makes her remarkable.
Her dark hair is pin straight, not a single strand out of place, as opposed to my wild red locks I have trouble taming. It fits my personality — bold and a bit reckless. Her clothing choice is a complete juxtaposition to my love of color, her conservative charcoal suit something I wouldn’t even wear to a funeral. Her makeup is simple. Not over the top, but enough to add color in all the right places. I like making a statement with my makeup. My mother once told me a great red lipstick could make everything better, advice I’ve carried into adulthood. She doesn’t seem to have a single curve on her body, compared to my shapely hips and ample chest. The combination of my physique and red hair causes many people to comment that I resemble the character Joan from Mad Men.
Is this really what Trevor wants? Someone boring and…ordinary? It’s almost like he purposely found someone who’s the polar opposite of me. I’m not sure if I should find satisfaction or sadness in that fact.
“Sorry.” He licks his lips as he tugs at his tie, a nervous tick of his. I wonder if his new friend even knows that yet. “Evie, this is Theresa. Theresa…” His Adam’s apple bobs up and down, “this is Evie.”
She stares me down, her mouth forming a tight line. Her lukewarm reception gives the impression that Trevor must have mentioned me. I can almost hear her disapproving thoughts, wondering what he could have seen in someone like me.