Fuck.
This was it.
That was the last time he’ll ever be inside me, working my body with such skill and determination and lust that I can’t imagine how I survived for so long without him. How was I able to go through life not knowing just what it was like to have someone be so in tune with every cell in your body, every drop of blood pouring through your veins? It’s like before I met him, I thought just having food, water, and shelter was enough to keep you going. But it’s not true at all. Sex is just as important, and sex with this man, this gorgeous, incredible man, is just as vital to my body and my needs as anything else.
I think I might decay without him.
“We should go,” he whispers to me as he gets to his feet, disposes of the condom, and zips up his pants.
I nod and slowly sit up, pivoting away from him, afraid to look at him just in case he sees the tears in my eyes. I quickly pull down my shirt and adjust my bra, my nipples still hard and my skin covered in goose bumps.
“Hey,” he says, and I look to see him holding out his hand to me. “Come on.”
I put my hand in his, and he hauls me to my feet, then wraps his arms around me and pulls me into a hug. His embrace is warm and comforting and makes everything right again. It makes everything safe. To step away from his arms is to face a cruel and uncertain world. To stay here is bliss.
“I’m going to miss you very much,” he says, whispering harshly into my neck.
“You’re just going to miss the sex,” I say, and I knew it was a mistake the moment I opened my mouth.
He pulls back and stares at me intently, a deep line formed between his brows. “Why would you say that?”
“I was just joking,” I tell him, trying to look away.
He gives me a light shake. “No. It’s not just the sex. I’ve had plenty of sex with plenty of women, and I know when it’s just the sex. This isn’t it. I care about you, Sadie. More than I ever thought possible. Yes, we’ve only known each other for a week, but in this week . . .” He looks away, licking his lips as he searches for his next words. “This week has been one of the best weeks I’ve ever had. In my whole fucking life.”
I blink at him, wide-eyed.
Whoa.
How can that even be? I mean, he has to have one of the most blessed lives out there.
“I mean it,” he says, his eyes coming back to meet mine. “Being with you . . . I could finally be myself. Or I could finally be someone else. Or maybe both those things are the same things. All I know is that I’ve felt wanted and happy and free, and I can’t remember the last time I’ve had that.”
I suck in my lower lip as my eyes roam all over his handsome face. I have such a hard time coming to terms with the idea that his life hasn’t had all those things, that he hasn’t had everything he’s ever wanted.
“You have everything,” I say softly. “How could this be . . . How can this mean so much to you?”
“I don’t know. It just does. Tell me all of this meant something to you.”
“Of course it did. It meant everything. I’m still trying to wrap my head around what happened here. With you and me. With everything. It’s been a dream, a dream I’ve been so afraid to wake up from. A dream I will have to wake up from very soon, and when I do, it’s going to hurt like a motherfucker.”
That makes him smile. “Sometimes I forget how eloquent you can be,” he says. “Perhaps I’ll miss that part the most. Your dirty, dirty mouth.”
“Oh, stop,” I tell him, pushing back on his hard chest. “It’s probably a good thing we part ways now, or else I’d turn you from a charming Frenchman into a foulmouthed sailor.”
“You know I can have a foul mouth on me,” he says, leaning in to take my earlobe between his teeth and tugging.
I let out a soft groan. I can’t help it. Even though we just had sex five minutes ago, I’m ready to go again already.
“Sorry,” he says with a wicked smile. “I know those ears of yours are one of your triggers.”
“Like more than an emotional trigger?” I joke, not that I mind my bunny nickname anymore.
“More like a sexual trigger. It’s too bad we didn’t have enough time for me to discover all the rest of them. I bet if I licked the inside of your knee, it might do the same thing. A little hard to reach, but we could make it work.”
I nearly shiver at the suggestion. “I think we should go before things get out of hand again.”
“Always the voice of reason,” he says. He leads me back into the room and then grabs my backpack just as I swing my cross-body purse over my shoulder. I’m almost out the door when something makes me pause and take a good look at this place. This room—this is where my other life began. This is where Sadie Reynolds was able to become someone else. Or maybe it’s like Olivier said, and I both became someone else and myself at the same time. Maybe that’s what it’s really about when you let yourself be free from everything that’s ever held you back.
I can feel heat tickling my nose, and I know I have to get out of here before I start crying.
Luckily, I don’t cry when we say goodbye to the famous hotel or while Olivier drives me to the Cannes train station. I should be staring out the window at the craggy mountains and the deep blue of the sea, the sea that has become a friend and constant companion for a week. I should be soaking it all in.
But I choose to take in Olivier instead.
Sure, I know he’ll live on in my memory, and anytime I want I can pull him up on the internet and ogle him, remembering the good times.
But it won’t be like it is now, with him right beside me. As real and mortal and flesh and blood as anything can be. Not a picture, not a memory, but a moment that I’m currently living, a moment I’m trying to stretch into infinity. A moment that I know will eventually disappear.
So I soak in the details: the gleam of his Dumont watch on his wrist; the fine, dark hairs that tease it; the large spread of his hands on the steering wheel, fingernails in tiny half-moons. The man must get manicures sometimes, because there’s no way anyone’s nails can look that nice naturally.
Then my eyes are drifting over the cords of his neck, the hollow of his collarbone, the way his skin glows against his white shirt.
Then the sharp planes of his features, that mouth that can get me off in two seconds flat, either by sucking my clit into oblivion or by letting loose a thousand dirty obscenities into my ears. The height of his strong cheekbones and the sexy swoop of his dark brows over his eyes.
It’s his eyes that I’ll have a hard time recalling.
The pictures don’t do them justice.
They don’t capture the way he looks at me. They don’t show the lust and the desire and the want and the need and the awe—the awe that I’m the most precious jewel on earth, found in a spot he never thought to look.
Even if they did, it wouldn’t compare.
And then, before I know it, we’re here, pulling up to the train station.
I didn’t have enough time, a voice screams inside me. That was over too fast, there wasn’t enough time.
Like a crazy person, I frantically try to stare at him one last time, as if that will finally cement his image into my head, as if that will keep him there forever.
But it’s too late.
“Are you okay?” he asks me, frowning as he looks me over.
I shake my head. “No. No, I mean, yeah. I’m fine, but . . .”
He swallows, looking pained. “I know. I know.”
And even though he doesn’t say it, I can still hear it in my head. Maybe it’s not his voice at all, maybe it’s mine.
It doesn’t have to be this way.
It takes a lot of effort to get out of the car, like my waterlogged heart is pulling me down to the ground and my legs and arms are filled with lead. The same goes for when we go inside the train station. I can’t even blame my ankle; it’s hard to just put one leg in front of the other and go.
Finally, we stop right beside the tr
ain. People are lining up, getting on board. It looks chaotic.
I turn to look at him. “I guess this is it.”
He nods at the compartment. “I’ll help you with your bag.”
“I’m fine, really,” I tell him, reaching for it.
He sighs and lifts it up, and I turn around so he can slip the straps over my arms.
It feels heavier than before. It’s funny, when you’re backpacking—and especially when you’ve been doing a stretch by yourself—your pack becomes a part of who you are. It’s a friend; it’s a pillow; it’s something to hug at night when you’re lonely.
But now, the pack feels different. Like it belonged to someone else other than me. Maybe it did.
One of the train conductors blows the whistle, and people start piling into the train faster.
This is it.
Time to go.
“Tell me we’ll see each other again,” Olivier says, placing his hands on my shoulders and leaning in, his forehead resting on mine. “Promise me that.”
I don’t like making promises, especially when I know the chances of seeing him again are slim. So I say, “I’ll do everything I can.”
He swallows, nods once, and then kisses me quickly. “Goodbye, mon lapin.”
“Goodbye, Olivier,” I whisper.
Then the train dude blows the whistle right in my ear, yelling something in French.
Even Olivier looks startled.
We break apart, and I step onto the train.
Look back at him.
Give a little wave.
He gives a little wave right back.
Then I go and find my seat.
The train pulls away, and I strain to see Olivier through the people settling in, but I can’t.
He’s gone.
I’m going.
I let out a long sigh, feeling the sadness come for me, and rest my head against the window. I don’t even notice the way it rattles as the train goes over the tracks.
Next stop: Barcelona.
Next stop: same old Sadie.
A loud beep from my phone goes off, interrupting the gloom in my head and the tightness in my chest, and I start to think that maybe it’s him. We exchanged phone numbers the other day—maybe he’s texted me to say something, anything at all that will make this better.
But it’s not him.
It’s an email from my mother.
Since it’s the middle of the night at home, I’m instantly worried that something is wrong.
But when I open my email, it’s a few paragraphs.
They say:
Dearest girl,
I had a dream about you just now. You were a baby bird, and I was a mother bird. Maybe a seagull. I’m not sure, but I had to watch you from afar, and you were learning to fly. You didn’t want to leave the nest. You kept looking at me, and I kept telling you to do it. That you needed to, or you would die. Then eventually you spread your wings, and you leaped off the nest.
You fell! At first you didn’t flap your wings, and I was terrified you would fall forever. But then you started to fly. You rose up on the wind, and then you were gone, and as sad as I was that I was alone, I was happier knowing that you were finally on your own. You were finally free to be you.
I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but I feel like maybe you should know.
I know you’re coming home in two weeks, and I know you feel like you have to because of school and because of me, but I just want you to know: if you want to keep flying, keep flying. You deserve it. You deserve everything, my baby girl.
Go, and be free!
Love,
Your crazy mother
I’m stunned. Not that my mother wrote me this—she often writes me about dreams and other things that come to her suddenly. She’s often random and impulsive.
It’s just that this is what I was waiting to hear. To not go back home is ridiculous—I don’t have the money for that, and I wouldn’t be able to get a job in Europe unless it was under the table. I need to go back for her, and I need to go back to school, and, despite what she says, those things are nonnegotiable.
But I can keep flying.
I should keep flying.
My heart starts racing even before the thoughts are forming in my head.
I glance up at the electronic schedule in front of the cabin doors.
Next stop is Cannes-La Bocca, by the water.
When the train starts to slow, I get up, grab my backpack, and exit, probably to the bewilderment of the people behind me.
Once I’m on the train platform, it starts to pull away, and I curse myself for possibly making the biggest mistake of my life. After all, if this doesn’t work out, I have absolutely no way of getting to Spain now.
But I wouldn’t know if I didn’t make the leap.
I take out my phone and text Olivier:
Want to come get me at Cannes-La Bocca station?
I’m grinning as I press “Send.” Nervous as hell and giddy, all at the same time.
He texts back immediately:
Are you serious?
My grin spreads across my face until I fear it may break it in half.
Absolutely. I’m not done with you yet.
CHAPTER NINE
OLIVIER
Paris, France
Contrary to popular belief, the Dumont company headquarters isn’t actually located in Paris. Any tourist (and even some Parisians) would say it’s still in the city, but the actual address is in Neuilly-sur-Seine, in between the iconic Arc de Triomphe and the ugly Grande Arche de la Défense. My father fought for years to keep it at our old location in Montparnasse. It wasn’t the Right Bank, but at least it was in Paris.
But then Chanel moved locations, and Gautier thought it would make sense for us to do the same—to the extent that the Dumont global headquarters is now located across from the Chanel one.
Secretly, I think the only reason my uncle even goes to the office is so he can spy on Chanel’s designers from across the street.
The office is a place I try my best to stay away from. First of all, I don’t actually work there; I’m always just popping in to see either Seraphine or my father, and yet somehow I always get roped into something the minute I step in. That’s the price for having Dumont as my last name—and the fact that most people believe I should be serving as president of fashion instead of Seraphine, even though she’s the one who has fought hard for it and deserves it more than anyone.
Second of all, traffic is a bitch to get there from my apartment in Le Marais, and I’m not about to take the Métro.
Third of all . . . Sadie.
Mon lapin.
The other day I was in for the surprise of my life.
After I said goodbye to Sadie and put her on the train, I was resigned to the idea that I might not see her again. It was a feeling I had been fighting for a week, heightened when Pascal showed up at the hotel making vague threats and, thankfully, left right after without a fuss.
Then she texted me about ten minutes later, and that was it.
I drove like a madman along the waterfront until I pulled into the train station and saw her standing there, backpack slumped at her feet and the biggest, purest smile on her face.
It made something in my heart twist and fizz, as if a champagne cork had finally come dislodged.
I grabbed her, kissed her, and told her she’d be the death of me.
I wonder just how true that might turn out to be.
Regardless, she’s back at my apartment, in bed, waiting for me, and I’ve just battled through traffic like a fucking warrior, selfishly hoping the meeting with my sister and father goes quickly so I can go back to her.
Now that I have her for two more weeks, every single second we have together is precious.
Naturally, I can’t tell them that. I’ve always been notoriously tight-lipped about the women I see, even when it comes to my family. I’ve been there for Seraphine for every agonizing moment of her recent divorce, but it
doesn’t go the other way.
I park the car around the corner. I drive a Mercedes when I’m down in the south of the country, but here in Paris I have a small Audi. I have a thing for German cars, preferably as fast and nondescript as possible.
As I walk around the corner to the building, I can see my cousin Blaise’s car in Gautier’s parking spot. It’s a red Ferrari, the complete opposite of my car. Whereas my side of the family believes in discretion and hiding your wealth—to an extent—that side of the family believes in being as flagrant and vulgar as possible.
But I should be glad that it’s just Blaise in the office today. I don’t like him, but he’s not Pascal, and he’s not his father, which means I can at least ignore him. I can’t really do that with the other two, especially when they zero in on me like they do.
I step inside the building, the front-desk clerk and concierge nodding to me as I go. I climb the stairs to the third floor.
“Mr. Dumont,” Nadia, the receptionist, says to me, getting to her feet, “I wasn’t aware you were coming.”
“I’m not surprised,” I say to her, glancing around the office. For all its quiet elegance with glass and white walls and black details, it’s absolutely chaotic, with harried-looking employees running all over the place. With autumn releases hitting the stores, Paris Fashion Week around the corner, and the annual Dumont Masquerade Ball next week, everyone is losing their minds.
Ah, the world of fashion. Makes being a hotelier look like a walk in the park.
“Should I let them know?” Nadia asks me.
I lift my hand. “It’s fine. They do know I’m coming; they probably forgot to tell you. Are they in my father’s office?”
She nods. “They’ve been going back and forth a lot. Blaise is in there too.”
Ah, fuck. I had hoped he would have stuck to his large corner office on the opposite side of the building.
I stride down the hall, take a deep breath, and knock on the door that says “Ludovic Dumont, CEO” on it.
Someone shouts a frantic “Come in,” and I open it.
My father’s office is chaos. He’s normally fairly neat and organized, but it was really my mother who kept him in line. Ever since she died . . . well, a few threads in his life have come loose, so to speak, and it’s always most apparent when he’s under deadline as we near launches.
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