“It’s not Aiden who’s coming, darling. It’s Olivier Durand.”
My eyes bulge. “Olivier Durand? You invited him over for dinner?”
“I did. Your father’s PR people think it’s a good idea.”
Anger rises up my chest, my face reddening. I’m a thirty-one-year-old woman, but my parents are still trying to run my life. Julia escaped their clutches when she got married, and our younger sister Stella wisely moved several states away. She’s now in medical school in Boston.
“I don’t make decisions based on what’s good for Dad politically,” I remind my mom.
“Oh, don’t I know it,” she scoffs.
My decision to major in social work and take a job working at a nonprofit clinic that serves the homeless has always been a sore spot for my mother. Not that I care. She’s never helped anyone unless there was something in it for her. I grew up wanting to be everything she’s not.
“I appreciate the way you guys have taken care of me,” I say, taking a page from a class I took on how to communicate with obstinate people—always open with a compliment. “But I’m not letting you dress me up like Socialite Barbie. I’ll do the dinner, because I want to thank Mr. Durand for what he did. But I’m wearing whatever I want.”
“Daphne, you won’t fit in,” Mom argues, turning to face me. “The rest of us will be dressed like civilized people and you’ll be wearing jeans with holes in them and one of your socialist T-shirts.”
“Oh, I just bought a new one that says ‘Carry Yourself With The Confidence of A Mediocre White Man.’ How about that one?”
“This is no time for joking,” my mother snaps.
“Who’s joking? It’s in the box over on that chair,” I say, pointing to the ridiculous velvet-upholstered wingback in the corner of the room.
My mom puts her fingertips on her temples, her lips pressed into a terse line.
“Our family is in the national spotlight,” she says tightly. “Just this once, this one time, can you think about your father and just be reasonable? Appropriate?”
I push back the covers and get out of bed. “There’s nothing unreasonable or inappropriate about advocating for the marginalized,” I say, annoyed. “If Dad’s embarrassed about what I stand for, that says a lot about him.”
“He’s not embarrassed by you, Daphne.”
“But you are,” I remind her. “You never fail to point out what a disappointment I am.”
“I just think you could do so much more with your life.” She sighs, exasperated.
“My work saves lives. It’s not that you want me to do more; it’s that you want me to want what you did. And I never will, Mom. I’m never marrying some rich man and planning his dinner parties while he’s out making more money. That’s not who I am.”
“It is, actually,” she says with a humorless laugh. “Your last name is Barrington.”
I take in a breath and let it back out, reminding myself what my therapist says about circular conversations. If having them accomplishes nothing and makes me feel bad, I should see the writing on the wall and walk away.
“I’ll go to dinner tonight and meet Olivier Durand,” I tell my mother. “But I have two conditions.”
“Heaven help me,” she mutters. “What do you want?”
“I’m moving back to my apartment tomorrow morning, and I’m going back to work. Once the reporters get some photos of me, the attention will die down.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “And?”
“And I want one of the news photographers let inside tonight to take a few pictures.”
“That won’t be necessary. Your father’s staff photographer will take photos and release them.”
I shake my head. “I want a news photographer, from an accredited news organization.”
“Daphne, I’m not letting one of those people into our home,” she balks.
“Why not? I’m not asking you to give them a private tour. They can take pictures of us meeting in the entryway if you want.”
“No. Your father’s staff photographer will do a better job.”
“No one wants those bullshit photos of Dad shaking this guy’s hand with a tear in his eye, Mom. Again, I know this is hard for you to understand, but not everything is about you and Dad.”
“How did I raise such an ungrateful brat?” She scowls at me. “After all I’ve done for you, this is—”
“I’m getting in the shower,” I say, cutting her off. “Do we have a deal or not?”
“Fine.” She throws up her hands. “I’ll have your father’s communications manager approve one photographer. But only one.”
“Good.”
I turn to walk into the bathroom.
“So you’ll do the hair and makeup,” she says.
“No.” I don’t turn around to look at her.
“That wasn’t one of the conditions.”
“That was never up for debate. I’ll go to dinner, but I’m doing it dressed in my own clothes.”
“You’re thirty-one years old, Daphne. Not exactly a spring chicken. And since you don’t intend to give Aiden another chance, why not put your best foot forward with the man who saved your life and also happens to be a great catch? Would it be so awful to look beautiful for once?”
Her words sting. Even after all the years of being on the receiving end of her bitter comments and attempts at matchmaking, it still hurts. I don’t let it show, though.
“I don’t wear designer clothes, Mom. You know that.”
She waves a hand as she walks toward the door, like I’m a lost cause. “Fine, Daphne. Embarrass your father after he’s spent thirty-five years building a career he’s proud of. You’d probably enjoy that.”
I sigh softly, reminding myself that she’s a master manipulator. Queen of passive aggressive jabs. Just another reason I have to move back to my apartment. She and I are like oil and water and always have been.
Just one more night. One dinner. And then I can go back to my everyday life, away from having my family’s wealth and privilege showcased on a daily basis.
That’s not who I am, I remind myself. I get to decide who I am. And while my last name is Barrington, I am not and never will be a self-absorbed heiress.
It’s taken me a long time to feel like I truly fit into the life I’ve made for myself. And that life may be less than an hour from the affluent suburb of Naperville my parents live in, but it might as well be another world.
I’ll be back in that world tomorrow. Not a moment too soon.
Chapter Five
Olivier
The Barrington mansion comes into view as Ben drives through a canopy of trees near the end of the long, private road that leads to the sprawling stone building. Even though it’s January and the trees have no leaves, there are evergreens surrounding the home on all sides other than the front.
Seclusion comes at a price in Naperville, but the Barringtons have it. This property has likely been in their family for a long time, and the real estate developer in me can’t help wondering how much it cost to buy the land and build the mansion.
Ben stops at the front entrance and comes around to open my door.
“Thanks, Ben,” I say as I step out of the vehicle, buttoning my suit jacket.
There’s a photographer nearby, and he snaps a couple of photos. Senator Barrington’s office called my office to see if I was okay with a photographer being here tonight. And while it’s not what I would have chosen, his spokesman said Daphne wanted it, so I didn’t argue.
The front door is opened by a middle-aged man dressed in an old-school butler’s uniform.
Nodding, he says, “Welcome, Mr. Durand.”
“Thank you,” I say, walking through the open doorway as he steps aside, holding the tall, carved dark wood door open.
Everything about this place, from the stone exterior to the formal landscaping to the butler, reminds me of the time I spent in London. That’s where I lived when I was a twenty-something entrepreneur
making a name for myself.
“May I take your coat?”
“Yes, thanks.” I shrug off my long wool coat and pass it to him, then offer him my hand for a handshake. “Hi, I’m Olivier Durand.”
He lowers his brows in disapproval. Christ, I guess we’ve time travelled back to the 1800s, and it’s considered bad form to introduce yourself to the household staff.
“Mr. Durand, I’m so glad you could make it,” a male voice says warmly.
I turn to see US Senator Ron Barrington in a well-tailored suit, his gray hair combed back neatly.
“Ron Barrington,” he says, shaking my hand and then chuckling as he brings it in for a hug. “Words can’t express my thanks for what you did for my daughter. If there’s ever anything, anything at all, that I can do for you, you only need to ask.”
He stands back and locks eyes with me, gratitude shining in his eyes. I don’t think much of politicians overall, but this guy seems sincere.
“It was my pleasure,” I say, meaning it.
“Mr. Durand!” a female voice calls out, her heels clicking on the wood floor as she approaches.
She’s heavily made up, wearing what looks like an evening gown, and looks the same age as the senator. Even with all the makeup, it’s obvious she’s quite pretty.
“Olivier, please,” I say, extending my hand.
“Sandra Barrington,” she responds, smiling. “Daphne’s mother. Thank you so much for saving our daughter, Olivier. We’re so thrilled to have you here tonight.”
The photographer is clicking away, and I feel like a prop. Part of a performance. My privacy comes at a high cost, and I can’t believe I’m willingly giving the #Olidaph movement the fodder they’ve been begging for.
“Come in, please,” Sandra says, leading the way to a room outfitted with couches, chairs and a wall of tall windows overlooking a dormant garden.
I meet Daphne’s older sister, Julia, who seems nice, and also her husband, Andrew, and their two young sons, Tate and Heath.
“So this is the famous Olivier Durand,” an older woman says as she enters the room.
She’s tall and lean, her white hair neatly styled and her eyes sparkling with mischief. In black linen pants and an emerald-colored blouse, she looks every inch the matriarch of this family.
“I’m Josephine Barrington,” she says, looking me over from head to toe.
“Olivier Durand. Nice to meet you.” I offer her my hand, but she goes in for a hug instead, which given her formal appearance, takes me by surprise.
“I’m so grateful to you,” she says softly. “I’d write you a large check to show my thanks, but I don’t suppose you need it.”
I laugh and say, “No, but thanks.”
Leaning back, she puts her pale, delicate hands on my forearms and holds on as she looks at my face.
“You don’t happen to have a thing for older women, do you?” she asks.
Her expression is completely serious as I grapple for a response. Finally, I manage to say, “Well, I—”
She cuts me off with a full-throated, infectious laugh. “I’m joking, Olivier. I’m sure you’ve got your pick of firm, ripe peaches. You don’t want this old raisin.” She looks over at a well-stocked bar cart and says, “Let’s have a drink, shall we.”
I like her. Josephine Barrington is the kind of person I like to spend time with. She doesn’t take herself too seriously, and she’s warm and generous.
“Macallan?” she asks me as she holds a decanter above a glass.
“Yes, thanks.”
The butler from earlier rushes over, his expression gruff as he says, “Ma’am, let me do that.”
“Jerry, leave me be,” she snaps, meeting his eyes. “I’m eighty-seven years old, and I’d like to pour my own drinks and wipe my own ass while I still can.”
“Mother, please,” Ron says from the other side of the room.
“It’s true.” She shrugs and passes me a tumbler, holding up another for herself. Both have very generous pours of Macallan. “Cheers, Olivier.”
“Cheers.”
We clink glasses and I take a sip of the scotch, enjoying the touch of toffee I taste as it goes down. I’ve got some nervous energy I’m hoping the drink will calm.
Since watching that video clip of Daphne, I’ve found myself thinking of her during meetings. Over dinner. While lying in bed at night staring into the darkness.
Will I feel the same attraction to her in person? It’s been a long time since I was truly drawn to a woman. Before Giselle moved in with me full-time last year, I went out on dates and slept with women, but it was more to fill my weekends alone than anything. It was fun, but nothing more.
Now that I have Giselle full-time, though, I’m usually at home with her when I’m not at work or a work function. And it’s good. I like being a full-time dad. In the past year, I haven’t missed dating. I never knew if women really wanted me, anyway, or just the money and power that came with the package.
“There she is,” Ron says as a woman I immediately recognize as Daphne walks into the room.
She’s wearing a simple pale blue dress, a cream-colored woven cardigan and ballet flats. Her hair is down in loose waves around her shoulders and other than a little pink lipstick, it doesn’t look like she has any makeup on.
The room goes quiet as we lock eyes. I go to set my glass down, but there’s no table there. I can’t look away from Daphne, though, so I just keep blindly trying to set my glass down on nothing.
Finally, Josephine takes the glass from me.
“Hi, I’m Daphne,” she says, smiling warmly.
“And I’m…”
Fucked. I am so completely fucked. I negotiate contracts worth hundreds of millions of dollars, but in this moment, I can’t speak. I can’t even remember my goddamn name.
She’s beautiful. There’s wisdom, compassion and joy in her sky blue eyes. But it’s her smile that really sets her apart. I don’t just see her smile; I feel it. It’s like sunshine—warm and bright, washing over me from head to toe.
“Olivier,” Josephine says in a loud whisper as she pokes me in the side. “You’re Olivier.”
“Right.” I smile, pulling myself together and walking over to meet Daphne in the center of the room. “I’m Olivier.”
Daphne holds her hand out and I take it, mindful not to grip her like I’m closing a deal. Her skin is soft. She has to tip her chin up slightly to hold my gaze, and I can’t help thinking about the way she’d fit against me if we were closer.
“How’s your arm?” she asks me. “I read that you were burned.”
“Oh.” I look down at the arm that was burned, now hidden beneath my dress shirt and suit jacket, and then back at her. “It’s nothing. I’m fine. How are you healing?”
“Good.” She glances at the doorway and says, “Can we talk in private?”
“Of course.”
My heart pounds at the thought of being alone with her. Just this small interaction has me feeling more longing than I have in a while.
I want to take her in my arms and kiss her. Hold her and never let go. Feel her hair against my cheek. And more…much more.
“We can go in my dad’s office,” she says, turning to lead the way.
The photographer, a shaggy-haired guy in his thirties, follows. When Daphne walks into a dark-paneled room and stands aside for me to enter, the photographer tries to come in, too.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Wait out here.”
He wrinkles his face in confusion. “I was given an exclusive.”
“And you got it,” I tell him.
“This is gonna be the best part.”
I shake my head. “You’re not coming in.”
He mutters something as I close the door. I forget he even exists as I walk over to Daphne, who’s standing by a wall lined with bookshelves, all filled with books, plaques and awards of her father’s.
“Do you think he might be listening?” she asks softly.
I
walk over to the door and open it to check. The hallway is empty.
“All clear,” I say, closing the door again.
She sighs, looking relieved.
“I’ve thought about what I’d say when I met you so many times over the past month,” she says. “And now, nothing feels right.”
“You don’t have to say anything.” I approach her and she sits down on a leather couch, gesturing for me to sit next to her. “What I did was just instinct. You would have done the same.”
“I hope so,” she says as I sit down on the other end of the couch, reluctantly leaving the middle cushion empty. “But none of us really know until we’re in that situation. When I watched the video and saw all the people just standing there, I realized…” Her smile is sad. “If you hadn’t been there, I don’t think I’d be here right now.”
“But I was, and you are.” I want to reach over and take her hand, but I don’t. I remind myself that we don’t really know each other.
“I can never thank you enough. And I want you to know, I’ll pay it forward. Somehow, in some way, I’ll make the world a better place.”
“It sounds like you already are, with your work.”
She smiles, and this time there’s no sadness there. “I try to. I really do try, every day, to lift people up and give them hope. I’m going back to work tomorrow, and I can’t wait.”
“What do you do at your job?”
“It depends on the day. We’re a resource for homeless people, so we help find rooms in shelters, and we’re a stop off site for meal deliveries. We have a doctor who comes in to see people once a week, we help connect homeless kids with tutors…that kind of thing.”
“Sounds rewarding.”
“I think so.”
I resist the urge to tell her I provide the majority of the funding for a homeless shelter and restaurant operated by Reese Deveraux, the wife of a Blaze player. Something tells me Daphne wouldn’t be impressed by anything to do with money. She’s been there, done that and chosen a different direction for her life.
“I hear we’re a hashtag,” I say instead. “Or we have a hashtag? What’s the terminology on that?”
Olivier: A Chicago Blaze Hockey Romance Page 3