Priceless (An Amato Brothers/Rixton Falls crossover)

by Winter Renshaw

  “We don’t have much time together, Daphne,” he huffs whenever I try to sneak a free moment alone. “We have to make every hour count.”

  The maître d at last night’s restaurant thought I was Halbrook’s younger lover, and Halbrook thought it was hilarious. He even casually suggested that we play along, placing his hand on the small of my back and invading my personal space until I moved away from him. I smiled politely and declined, feeling it wasn’t necessary to point out that he was old enough to be my father, and even if I were into older men, I wouldn’t be into pompous, arrogant, narcissistic artists.

  Been there. Done that. No thank you.

  Scanning the room, my gaze lands on the bar area once more. I’ve tuned Halbrook out for the most part, though I catch bits and pieces of what he’s saying. He’s talking about himself. Again. And I’m so bored I could gouge my eyes out with this shiny butter knife on my right.

  “Would you excuse me for a moment?” I lift a finger to interrupt him before grabbing my purse and readying myself to prance off toward the ladies’ room. Halbrook stares at me dumbfounded, his jaw hanging as if I’ve just committed a social faux pas by excusing myself in the middle of his story. But I don’t care. I need to breathe. I need air. I need space.

  He’s probably wondering why I’ve had to go twice in the last half hour, but every minute away from this man is a godsend, and I’ll feign a bladder issue as much as I need if it gets me some alone time.

  Squeezing through the crowded bar section of the restaurant, I spot the line to the ladies’ room and count at least six women ahead of me. Taking a spot in line, I grab my phone and check my texts. Delilah sends me daily updates on Noah, though I’ve yet to receive one for today. It’s early afternoon in Chicago right now, but I know yesterday she said Noah was fussy and nobody was getting any sleep. They suspect colic, whatever that is. I just hope it’s not serious. She’d tell me if it were. I kept meaning to Google it, but Halbrook has me so busy I keep forgetting.

  I scroll through some old photos of baby Noah, smiling to myself. If I try hard enough, I can almost remember what he smells like, his sweet, powdery scent and the ultra gentle detergent Delilah uses to wash his super soft onesies. I can’t wait to hold him again, breathe him in. I’m not much of a baby person, but already I love this little boy more than anything in the world.

  The bathroom line moves ahead one spot, and I peer my head around the corner to check on Halbrook. His lips are pressed flat and he’s scanning the room and checking his watch. He’s annoyed that I ditched him, but I don’t care.

  Two women ahead of me are engaged in conversation, their faces animated. They’re talking about a man. No. Men. Plural. French men versus American men.

  “I love American men,” the woman on the left declares to her friend, though she speaks in French. “They’re so fast. I like it hot and heavy. I don’t like to waste time. French men, they are too casual. Too laid back.”

  “But that’s what I love about French men,” the friend replies in her native language. “They’re mellow. They don’t rush you. American men try to rush everything. They sour the milk that way. French men take their time. They know how to do it right.”

  The women laugh, sipping their drinks and casually scanning the bar area.

  The line moves ahead, and the women continue to compare and contrast. They’re not wrong, at least in my experience. French men are laid back. They don’t like to label things or rush the process. They’re not in a hurry to make anything official. American men, at least the ones I’ve known, can be a bit intense. Then again, I can be a bit intense as well. I suppose it’s just our “fast food” culture. We want things and we want them now. We don’t like to wait, especially when we know the getting’s going to be good.

  A small crowd of people collect outside a window just past the bar, several of them smoking and talking, waving at passersby. There’s a man with dark, ruffled hair, his back toward me. His height reminds me of Cristiano. His broad shoulders. His narrowed waist. His rounded biceps. The man is wearing a gray t-shirt and dark jeans, and he keeps his hands in his pockets while the two men beside him puff on thin cigarettes. My breath hitches for a moment, and I physically feel the tiniest piece of me long for that man to be him.

  How funny it would be to run into him here. In another country. Thousands of miles from where we left off.

  In that sliver of a second, I forget why it was I didn’t call him back . . . why it was I chose to go my own way.

  The bathroom line moves ahead another place, and I turn my gaze toward the chatting women ahead of me. When I glance back to the window, the three men are gone. My heart sinks more than I’d like it to, but I pull my shoulders back and pull in a deep breath and brush it off.

  To my left, jingle bells rustle as the door to the bar side of the restaurant swings open. Two men step in first, one in pencil jeans and a striped Breton t-shirt, the other in a sweater vest and corduroy pants. I’m not certain, but I think they were the ones standing outside just a second ago. The door swings closed behind them. The third man, the Cristiano-lookalike, doesn’t follow.

  Exhaling hard, I tell myself this is getting ridiculous. I’ve been seeing him everywhere. Airports. Cafes. Shops. Places he couldn’t possibly be. It’s all in my head.

  The bells jingle once more, and I can’t help but turn my gaze in that direction.

  But the second I do, my heart stops cold in my tight chest. The air is sucked from my lungs, making it impossible to so much as attempt to breathe.

  There’s. No. Way.

  This isn’t happening.

  My mouth is dry, my face flushed. He’s making his way across the bar, following his friends, but each step he takes brings him closer.

  His associates grab some seats by the bar and then flag him down. He waves back at them, his mouth lifting at the side and revealing a hint of his bright white smile – the one that incinerates panties all over the world, I’m sure – and my heart pounds so hard I feel it in my eardrums. Nothing about this moment feels real.

  My gaze is locked on him, and it’s as if I’m certain he’ll disappear into thin air if I look away once more. Watching him navigate through the crowded bar, I mentally calculate the distance between us and come up with the conclusion that he’s no more than fifteen feet away now.

  There’s a thick, woolen scarf around his neck, and he yanks it down with one quick tug, letting it fall down his chest and shoulders. He seems happy, at least right now. And I wonder if any part of him misses me in any way. All things considered, we had a connection. And chemistry. And maybe we’re not meant to be, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’ve thought about him day in and day out since the day I left him in Scranton.

  Licking my lips, I find myself completely entranced with Cristiano. He’s seated between his friends now, saying something. I can’t read lips, but I’m willing to guess he’s speaking in French, and I’d give just about anything to know what he’s saying. What he’s been up to lately. If he’s had any more “adventures” since I saw him last.

  Cristiano eyes the bar, points quickly, and then leans closer to his friend to say something. A second later, he has left the table, headed even closer in my direction. His eyes narrow as he reads the drink special hanging over several well-lit glass shelves holding polished bottles of top shelf liquor.

  And then he looks away.

  He scans the room.

  My body freezes, well aware that any second now, we’re going to lock eyes. He’ll notice me. And he’ll notice me noticing him.

  And he’ll look away, because that’s what men like him do. They don’t need to mess with girls like me, the ones who flee the moment they find some kind of red flag. He doesn’t need to chase after me. He doesn’t need to chase after anyone.

  I’m just a small blip on his radar at this point. A girl he met once at an airport. A girl he drove nearly three thousand miles across the country with. A girl he knew for five short days of his long and w
inding life.

  He’ll forget me soon enough. Someday he may even forget my name. That’s just how these things go.

  I decide to look away. I don’t want to know what his face looks like when it sees me – when it registers that we’re standing in the same bar in the same restaurant in the same city four thousand miles from home. I don’t want to know if he looks annoyed or indifferent or conflicted. I don’t want to see.

  The bathroom line moves forward once more, and the two girls ahead of me go in together. Fishing around in my purse, I pull my phone out in a desperate attempt to preoccupy myself with something else. I need a distraction, something that’ll let me ignore the cherry heat in my ears and the galloping heart in my chest.

  “Daphne.” His familiar voice sends an electric shock through my entire body a moment later. I don’t have to look up to feel his presence beside me. The warmth of his hand on my arm follows next.

  Pulling in a deep breath, I look up at him. He’s half-smiling, studying my face, equally as shocked as I was a moment ago. His dark eyes are lit under the dim bar lighting, and the space between us tightens.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks.

  My lower lip falls, but nothing comes out at first. I’m lost in his gaze for a second, trying to find my footing and pull myself together. I didn’t think I’d see him ever again, and now he’s standing in front of me, happy to see me, touching me, breathing me in just as much as I’m breathing him in.

  “I’m here for work,” I say.

  His eyes search mine. “This is insane. I . . . I can’t believe you’re here. How long are you staying? You want to grab a drink with us?”

  Just past his shoulders, I spot his friends. They’re watching us, though they seem friendly enough.

  “I can’t,” I say apologetically. “I’m only in the city a few more days, then I go home. I’m mentoring with this professor.” I roll my eyes. “He’s got my entire schedule on lockdown. Every free minute.”

  Cristiano chuffs, dragging his hand along his jaw. “Surely I can steal you away for an hour or two. I can’t imagine being in the same city as you, halfway around the world, and-”

  “I know, it’s just hard to get away. Classes start in a week and a half, and I’ve got to make sure I’m prepared.” I give him a bullshit excuse, though I think he’s aware. I’ve taught before, back when I was in graduate school. I was a teacher’s assistant, a studio assistant, and I taught two classes all on my own the summer after I graduated. This isn’t my first rodeo.

  “Where are you staying?” he asks, clearly not buying it.

  “The Marmount. It’s a tiny hole-in-the-wall place that has some kind of agreement with the college.”

  “I’m staying at the Four Seasons,” he says. “Just up the street from you.”

  I nod, not sure what he’s getting at. From the corner of my eye, I see the girls exit the bathroom. I don’t have to go now. Honestly, I didn’t have to go earlier either. Turning to the woman behind me, I tell her, in French, to go ahead.

  “I want to see you tonight, Daphne,” he says, squaring his shoulders with mine. Reaching for my hand, he slips it in his. “There’s this little jazz club just around the corner from my hotel. Best trumpeter in the world is playing there tonight, and I know the bouncer. Come with me.”

  Glancing away, I begin to shake my head as I try to think up a legitimate excuse.

  But I have none.

  “Come on,” he says, stepping closer, squeezing my hand. “How many times in your life are you going to be able to say you heard the legendary Stogie Williams play his heart out at the iconic Bleu Deaux Club?”

  He has a point – despite the fact that I’ve never heard of that trumpeter or that club, I trust him when he says they’re renowned. And this would, on all counts, be considered a priceless moment.

  Smiling, I glance down at our hands, studying how intermingled they are, how naturally they fit. And then I find myself wondering if there’s the tiniest possibility that I was wrong about him.

  “Fine,” I say, intentionally keeping my excitement subdued. “I’ll go.”

  “Meet me outside your lobby at nine,” he says, giving my hand another squeeze. He lingers for a moment, and then he lets me go, returning to his friends.

  Flushed and strangely exhilarated, I return to my table-for-two, bracing myself for the wrath of Halbrook.

  Taking my seat, I lift the metal cloche that covers my entrée and glance across the flickering candle to see that Halbrook is sawing off a chunk of his nearly finished filet mignon. He glances up at me over his thin wiry glasses, and pushes a hard breath past his nose, his double chin jiggling as he chews.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, taking my seat. “The line was really long.”

  “It isn’t polite to keep a man waiting like that,” he says.

  My chest burns, like word vomit is churning, fighting its way out. Had he said “dinner guest” or any other like phrase, I’d have let this go. But I’ve had enough of his pompous, chauvinistic behavior.

  Letting my fork hit my plate with an alarming clink, I scoot my chair away from the table and look him square in the eyes.

  “Professor Halbrook.” I say his name with a careful staccato. “I am not your date. I am not your girlfriend. I am certainly not some pretty little plaything sent here to hang on your arm and listen to you drone on and on about yourself as you charge extravagant dinners to the university.”

  The couple at the table beside us flicks their attention in our direction, stopping mid-chew to tune into the shit show about to go down.

  “Daphne,” he says my name with a brute cough, speaking to me as he would a misbehaving child. His beady eyes squint behind his frames and he sits up straight. “There’s no need to cause a scene, young lady.”

  “Young lady?” I stand up, feeling the heat of dozens of stares as they land on me. I’m causing a scene, yes, but I don’t fucking care. I’ve had enough of Halbrook’s seedy behavior this week, and I won’t tolerate another minute of it. “I am a twenty-six-year-old woman. I have a terminal degree. I am your colleague. And you will treat me with the same respect I have shown you.”

  All week, I’d convinced myself to stay cordial. To politely rebuff his completely inappropriate advances. I’d been completely sure that if anything were to go down, he’d still be sitting pretty when it was all said and done, and I’d be blacklisted from every fine arts college in North America. After all, he had tenure and a whole pocketful of deans eating from the palm of his hand. Seaview College and its subsidiaries need Halbrook more than he needs them. And I’m just a nobody. They wouldn’t believe anything I say anyway, and they certainly wouldn’t admit to anything since that would set them up for a lawsuit.

  I was dead set on not beginning my tenure at Seaview College of Fine Arts with a phone call to my lawyer.

  But enough is enough.

  “Daphne,” he says, forcing a jostling chuckle in his tone as he looks around the restaurant, offering apologetic glances to our audience. “Come on now. Finish your meal so we can go.”

  “I’m not hungry anymore.” I toss my napkin onto my plate and sling my purse over my shoulder.

  Refusing to stand around and engage in conversation with Professor Caveman a second longer, I turn on my heel and show myself out, making a beeline toward my hotel so I can prep for my night on the town with Cristiano.

  Flooded with nervous energy and a hint of excitement, I feel a smile crawl across my mouth when I pass the bar and glance inside. He’s still sitting there, drinking with his friends. And in a fraction of a second, he turns to glance outside, spotting me.

  His mouth pulls up in the corner, and he lifts his hand, his gaze holding strong on me until we disappear from each other’s sight.

  Chapter 32

  Cristiano

  My ears are ringing but my body is reeling as we leave Bleu Deaux. Strolling down the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, Daphne stays close, her arm brushing against mine as we tak
e leisurely steps under a sprinkling of stars and city lights.

  “What’d you think?” I ask.

  “I loved it.” Her face lights, and I believe her. She isn’t just saying it to appease me. I watched her all night, noting how she leaned in, toward the music, watching her sing along when they played an old American Standard that she apparently knew by heart. Every once in a while she’d clap her hands, and sometimes she’d glance my way, meeting my stare with a smile that told me she was completely oblivious to the fact that I was sitting there completely entranced with her when I should’ve been watching old Stogie blow his horn.

  He’s getting up there in age. This may well have been one of his last shows on earth. But how many times will I get to have this moment? How many times will I get to be sitting in a jazz club with Daphne by my side, painted in genuine excitement, experiencing something so novel for the first time?

  “I never knew you liked jazz,” she says.

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he says. “They say a man’s heart is as deep as the ocean.”

  She punches my arm. “Okay, little old lady from Titanic.”

  I smirk, meeting her gaze and loving the way her baby blues nearly glow under the night sky. Our shoes scuff along the pavement, and up ahead a busker plays Chopin on his violin. We walk beneath a canopy of Parisian trees, naked in their winter state, and a row of headlights whoosh past on the street, one by one.

  Daphne shoves her hands in her pockets as the icy wind picks up, and I use the opportunity to wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her closer against me.

  “Why didn’t you call me back?” I ask. I debated not bringing it up at all, but I have to know. And there’s a very real chance that if I don’t ask now, I’ll never get my answer. This woman runs. She runs like I run. Shit gets hard, we’re both gone in a flash. I’m not sure whether that makes us perfect for each other or exactly the opposite.