by Angel Payne
Reece tugs me closer still, emitting a growling grunt I’ve never heard from him before. “Apparently, it’s about what they’ve all come across the country to talk to me about, Velvet. And in Monsieur Guerrin’s instance, an ocean and a country.”
The Frenchman’s eyebrows turn into jumping slashes—for two seconds. Urbanity intact again, he drawls, “Reasoned that all out, hmmm?”
“Your pocket square is embroidered with the Guerrin Motors logo.” Reece nods at the artfully arranged silk in the man’s dress jacket. “Figured I had a better than decent chance that you’re Paul Guerrin, the maestro who’s been helping my father negotiate the maze of the French government in order to build a sixty-story, all-glass designer hotel in the middle of a luxury neighborhood known for buildings that go back centuries. And also, last I checked, you’re considering becoming a partner in said venture—on top of the alternative fuel company and movie studio you’ve just acquired as well.”
“Ah!” The man brings his hands together with a giant whop. “Magnifique! If my own advisors even knew as much by half…”
“I really am more than a pretty face and a fast backup generator, Monsieur Guerrin.”
“Exactly what I am counting on, Monsieur Richards.”
“What we’re all counting on.” But Tyce’s new attempt at brotherly bonding hits the air with all the discomfort that backed it. I really think the guy is trying, but diplomacy isn’t called an art for nothing. Though I try to send the guy an at-least-you-tried smile, the glare I get for my trouble has me burrowing tighter against Reece.
“Well, that’s hunky-dory to hear,” Reece rejoins. “Except that I’m still stumbling in the dark here, and I’m the one with flashlights for fingers.” He swivels his stare back to Lawson. “So this is about the Virage? Your last email stated the property’s still six months away from an opening date.”
“Yes, well…” Lawson pops a wider gaze back over to Guerrin before circling around to his sons again. “That plan has changed.”
Reece scowls. “Since when?”
“Since they just announced that for the first time in over a decade, the Grand Départ for the Tour de France is being moved to Paris.”
“Typically, the race only concludes in the capital,” Guerrin fills in. “And cities from Europe submit special proposals to be considered as the departure location. But a week ago, this year’s chosen departure city suffered a terrible explosion due to a faulty natural gas line. The main road was demolished, as well as many sewage pipes and electrical lines. The city is simply unfit to accommodate the fans, media, athletes, and support vehicles for our country’s largest sporting event.”
“And this year’s Tour will be bigger than ever.” Reece is so grave about adding a nod to it, I almost giggle. “That hotshot sprinter from Indiana has pulled back a lot of American attention to the sport.”
I’m damn glad for the last-minute hesitation on the laugh. Hell. He’s serious. My Dodgers, Rams, Chargers, Lakers, and Kings-loving fiancé is also a bicycle-racing fan. It’s kind of dorky. It’s super cute. It also has me wondering if I’ll ever get to see him in a pair of those skintight cycling shorts.
Muses the girl with a fiancé who wears custom-tailored suits for his day job and fitted leathers to his night gig? Poor, poor missy. Women across the globe are sobbing for you. In the fictional world you just created.
“You are correct again, monsieur.” Guerrin strokes his chin from the other direction. “Because of the extra interest in the ‘hotshot,’ there will be extra press and spectators traveling to Paris for the race this summer…”
“And clamoring for high-end American-brand hotels to stay in.” I finish the thought for him as the comprehension slams me as well. “So you’re going to push up the Virage’s opening.” I step away from Reece by a couple of inches while taking in that truth now writing itself across all their faces. “By a lot.”
“By a lot.”
Chase is the first one to dare the new emphasis, though Tyce is quick to move up next to his brother and add, “Which means we can’t do it alone.”
Lawson shifts to stand in front of them both. “Which means I need you now more than ever, Reece.”
“And not just for your pretty face.” Chase smirks.
“But we might have considered your hot bod,” Tyce deadpans. “Come on—the marketing possibilities. We can jack the door charge on the pool bar if it’s leaked that Bolt Boy and his wonder whang will be there, clad only in a Speedo…”
“No,” Reece spits.
I spear him with a glare.
He winks and then backhands Chase’s chest. “How was that for timing?”
“Keep trying, dick face,” Reece growls.
“He’s just jealous.” Chase imitates the expression.
“Screw you,” Tyce sneers.
“Boys,” Trixie censures—but the happiness behind her eyes is unmistakable. “Have you all reverted back into ruffians?”
Chase drops a tender gaze to her. “Would it be so awful if we did?”
Unsurprisingly, nobody in the group challenges him.
Reece is merciful about not letting the sentimental silence linger for too long. “Well, at least this A-Team turnout has now been explained,” he states—and while he’s pragmatic about the reasoning, it’s clear he’s still affected by the attention…that for the first time in a long time, he hasn’t had to break a limb, a law, or a heart to earn. When his visual sweep around the circle ends with Lawson, he ventures to his dad, “I assume you need an answer about this as of…oh…”
“Yesterday.” Guerrin, again proving his thorough French-ness, is accomplished at the teasing-not-teasing tone.
“Yeah.” Reece firms his jaw. “That’s what I thought.”
“That still doesn’t mean right this minute.” Trixie steps over to smooth invisible lint off her son’s lapel. “Not in the middle of your special night, dear—with your very special lady.” She tilts her head and winks my way. “You two will need to talk this through privately, of course—but Emmalina, if everything works out, don’t you worry about needing to get back to the States from Paris at any time, should RRO business require you here.”
“Hold up.” The interjection belongs to a clearly confused Tyce. “Emma would…go with Reece?”
“Yes.” Reece and I blurt it together.
Tyce rocks back with his hands up. “Can’t blame a brother for voicing the obvious.”
“The obvious…what?” I ask.
“No.” Reece’s resigned murmur is definitely not my answer. Nor is his renewed handclasp, a move elegant as a prince claiming his princess, before he finishes, “I can’t and don’t blame you, man.”
But the fraternal bonding is hacked in the form of a wide-eyed woman from the Observatory’s special events team. The name tag on her staff lanyard dangling over the plunging neckline of her black wrap cocktail dress may as well say Team Bolt Fangirl Leader instead of Greta, especially as she beams at Reece like he just zapped the moon out of the sky for her.
“Mr. Richards? We’re getting ready to begin the main presentation on the West Observation Terrace.”
Reece gives her his formal but friendly smile. “Thank you. Miss Crist and I will be right there.”
“Of course.” Her blush nearly blends her into the sunset. “Take all the time you need.”
But he doesn’t need much, and I’m glad. After ensuring his family and Monsieur Guerrin that he’ll have an answer for them soon, the two of us get a stolen moment of “solitude” in the form of our walk to the terrace—and I’m determined to take full advantage of it.
“All right, mister.” Since our hands are still clasped, I add a slight squeeze to my prompt. “Either you or Tyce still owes me an answer.”
Low growl. “Well, you’re not getting it from Tyce.”
“Okay…” I extend it, implying the question mark, but when he doesn’t reply, I prompt anyway, “Why?”
“Because he’ll embellish.”
“On the ‘obvious’?” I lean over, ensuring my air quotes are seen. “Is that possible?”
“With Tyce?” A pulse jumps in his jaw, though humor glimmers in his gaze. “Likely.”
And what does that mean?
But I stick to silence on that one, a choice for which I thank myself as soon as we take two more steps, onto the observation terrace, and find ourselves being the observed—and photographed, flattered, and fawned over—as soon as the crowd realizes that their guest of honor has appeared for the festivities.
Just like that, Reece switches himself into public-persona mode, becoming every woman’s Prince Charming and every man’s admired peer, as I simply struggle to keep my balance beneath the barrage of camera flashes and excited shouts. Through it all, he continues to be my anchor, never relenting his hold as we wind our way toward the risers that have been scooted together into a small stage for the evening’s ceremony.
With a protective hand at the base of my back, he guides me up the two shallow steps and parks me safely on one of the chairs lined up behind the podium, an imposing thing with the city seal carved into the front. He releases me, but only after leaning over and lifting a hand to my cheek so he can coax my lips to his cherishing brush of a kiss. In his eyes, the iridescence of every light in LA seems to shine and pulse especially for me.
“I love you,” he murmurs for my ears alone.
“As I love you,” I answer in a matching whisper.
“I wouldn’t be here tonight without you.”
“Yeah, you would.” I gently thumb away the lipstick that’s smudged on the corner of his lush mouth. “But I’m glad you’re not.”
He rolls his eyes before turning and making his way on stage. I watch him go with my usual appreciation—and adoration—of his long, masterful stride and his high, firm ass.
I settle back in, rearranging my skirts before lifting my head again. In the seat next to me, there’s a gorgeous woman I feel I should recognize, with her dark hair piled into a purposely undone up-do, with tendrils that brush her high, defined cheekbones. She turns and smiles, showing off a glittering gaze that’s offset by flawless smoky makeup.
“Hi.” A wider grin, making her even more glamorous. “Emmalina, right?”
“Ummm. Yes. I mean…errr…right. That’s me.” Right there. The top search result for “dorks who don’t know their own name.”
“Hi. I’m Gabriella.” She offers a hand, though she handles mine more like we’re at a girlfriend meet-up instead of stranger-on-stranger. “That’s my man up there with yours.” As she gazes up at the mayor, I’m shocked not to see little hearts and birds twittering around her head. “Can you even believe this is our life? And I thought getting to be in movies together was unreal. But there’s Troy, mayor of our city, getting ready to hand off his first key to your superhero boyfriend.”
I feel a smile coming on. A real one. If a celebrity like her can openly claim her stupefaction, then so can I. “Unreal is a good way to say it,” I laugh out. “Though if my brain’s in an alternate reality, why can’t my feet go there too?”
“Right?” Gabriella hides a giggle behind her free hand. “This thing was bumped up a month because of the lunar eclipse, right? Which means nighttime. Which means pajamas. Which means slippers, gang, not stilettos.”
I shake my head. “The theme was definitely decided by men.”
“Word.”
But the next giggle we share is cut short by the start of the ceremony. Though both our guys keep their speeches mercifully short, the president of the Observatory’s board cancels out their benevolence by giving a detailed history of the social, fictional, and historical significance of lunar eclipses. Though Gabriella and I attempt to pass the long minutes with meaningful stares that pass for everything from Save me now to Christopher Columbus sounds like an asshole to Help, I have to pee, there’s nothing much we can do between those diversions except amuse ourselves with crowd watching—except in the odd cases where we discover the crowd actually perusing us in return.
Like when my stare lands on Tyce Richards.
But I wouldn’t exactly label his look a pondering perusal. Or even a mildly curious gander. To get technical and uncomfortable, the man’s not even returning my stare. He’s weirdly fixated, to the point that I wonder if I’m just paranoid, courtesy of his abnormal intensity about everything coupled with his genuine shock about me accompanying Reece to Paris. I wasn’t blind to the flash of disappointment beneath his reaction. Maybe he’d been entertaining fantasies of Paris as a dazzling single man’s buffet to be enjoyed in full with his wild little brother at his side.
Tyce will embellish…
And a few overblown expectations in his head.
A psych major I never was, but a general emotional landscape of Tyce Richards begins to form, aided by the continuation of his hangdog stare. The middle son of a goal-driven father, sandwiched between the golden boy and the royal screw-up. Able to skate through high school and college on his looks and sports ability but rudderless since then. While his place in the family company is secure, he’s still not sure about his place in the world as a whole and has compensated by jumping in and out of relationships that don’t last once he’s asked to commit—and came tonight thinking he would seal the deal and enlist Reece as his wingman for Paris. He just didn’t anticipate the advent of me.
The certainty of all that is solidified with all my new glances at the guy—who gets creepier by the second. Though I’m positive some of this has to be my mind playing tricks on me, I’m still elated when the Observatory guy finally stops droning and the mayor can give his blissfully brief closing remarks.
“Come on.” Gabriella seizes my hand, steering me down the opposite side of the risers from where all the men exit. “They’ll be out on the Promenade with the press and vid media for at least fifteen minutes. Once we get to the bathroom, that gives us ten minutes of peace.”
I give her fingers a fast squeeze. “Not even my favorite Harry Potter spell sounds that magical.”
The dramatic lighting, tiled floors, and elegant exhibits in the Hall of the Sky are such a change from the noise and lights outside, I almost halt as soon as we’re inside the door. Goal achieved—who the hell needs the bathroom? But poor Gabriella and her I-gotta-pee-now imploration keep me clattering in her wake until we reach the ladies room at the juncture between the Hall and the Central Rotunda.
As I gratefully collapse onto one of the settees in the powder room—why don’t they make public restrooms like this anymore?—Gabriella does her business with a long, blissful sigh.
“Holy crap,” she yells from the stall. “I can finally think clearly again.”
I chuckle while yanking out my cell to check messages. “Been there, done that,” I call back as a new text beams across my screen from Lydia.
Where did you go?
I frown as a new line immediately follows—filled with three urgent-face emojis and an exploding volcano. I blink, wondering which of my reactions is stronger: bewilderment about her message or shock that there’s actually an exploding volcano emoji.
Either way, she’s clearly not settling for just a minute as an answer.
“Hey,” I call to Gabriella. “Do you mind if my sister joins us?”
“More the merrier!”
I laugh while texting ’Dia back, along with explicit instructions that no boys are allowed to have the secret rendezvous intel. Her responding message lends a little insight about her urgency to find me.
All the boys can kiss my tight sweet ass right now.
Since I don’t have any idea how to answer that, I don’t. Instead, after Gabriella washes up, reapplies her lipstick, and plops down on the settee beside me, I make her watch my measured breath in and then out before I state, “A disclaimer—and possibly an apology. My sister might be in quite a state.”
She pulls in a sharp hiss, letting her teeth show a little. “Ooooh. Boy trouble, huh? Or maybe…girl trouble?”
<
br /> I’m unable to get in an answer due to Lydia barging in with the grandeur of a female Liberace. Yes, down to the hair she flings like a stage cape and the wounded animal sigh she emits while sinking into the chair that faces the settee. “Men. Fucking. Suck.” She swings a wincing glance toward Gabriella. “Gawd. I’m sorry you had to hear that, Madame Mayor. Errrm…Madame Mayoral Wife? Mrs. Mayor?”
“Gabriella is fine. Or Gabi, if you prefer.” The woman crosses one gorgeous leg over the other, with her dancer-tight calf escaping from the side slit of her red sheath gown. “Because right now, I’m just another girl in the bathroom who needs to hear you spill it, girl. What asshole has made you feel this way?”
“Ding ding ding.” I raise a finger. “I got this one covered…if his name is Sawyer Foley.”
“Sawyer Fo—” Gabriella’s eyes widen. “Hold up. Wasn’t I just introduced to a guy named Sawyer right before the ceremony? Face like Beckham and Hunnam had a love child? Surfer-god hair and bod?”
“Ooohhhh.” Lydia slumps deeper into the chair. “Don’t remind me.”
“Why?” Gabriella and I ask together.
“Because all that beauty is what keeps bringing me down with that fucker.”
“Hold up the tamale cart.” I hitch up my skirt and shoot to my feet, despite how they only just started speaking to me again in these strappy Louboutins. But right now, I need the extra few feet of leverage over my sister. “For months, the only place you wanted to be with Sawyer Foley was down, down, down—as in on your back with him, doing the nasty in every position with him, drowning in sweat and all the other bodily fluids…”
“All right, all right.” Lydia flings up a hand, flushing furiously. “Nobody needs the graphic optics!”