Page 40 of Filthy Rich

“Thank God. Make sure you send me that.”

“Lucien. I don’t have your phone number.”

He sticks out his hand without a word.

I pass him my phone and watch as he inputs his information. I know this gesture doesn’t mean we’re actually dating or anything, but it still feels like a milestone and makes me unreasonably happy.

But I don’t want to get carried away with myself, a real danger the more time I spend with him. So I sip my wine, a delicious local rosé, and try to act nonchalant and sophisticated.

“You’ve obviously been here before,” I say.

“Yes…?”

“How many times?”

He hesitates. I sense a new wariness about him. “A lot.”

I wait, but there’s no more information forthcoming.

“Most recently?” I ask, slowing down my words because I’ve begun to suspect that a language barrier prevents him from understanding me every time I ask him a question of a remotely personal nature.

“The Grand Prix last year.”

“Oh, wow. How was that?”

He thinks it over. “Loud.”

Stymied, I can only laugh. “You’re a master of vagueness. I’ve decided you were either in the CIA or a politician, because you weasel your way out of saying anything personal.”

His expression tightens. “What’s to say?”

“I don’t know. Something. Anything. Otherwise, I feel like I’m interviewing you all the time. Or else you’re hiding something. Maybe you’re in the witness protection program or killed someone.”

A change comes over him. It’s like his face turns hard and shuts down, all at the same time.

“Lucien,” I say, my heart sinking, but he ignores me. He’s suddenly very invested in catching the server’s attention.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he tells me as she appears at the table.

“Anything else today?” she says, reaching for his empty glass of rosé.

He glances at me, brows up.

“Nothing for me, thanks,” I say, sorry to see this unceremonious end to our fabulous lunch?—

There’s an unexpected clunk as the server knocks over his glass and sends pink droplets flying in all directions. Including on his white pants.

“Hey,” he says, scooting his chair back.

“I’m so sorry,” the server says, hastily righting the glass and grabbing his napkin. “I didn’t mean to?—”

“It’s fine,” he says, taking the napkin from her before she uses it to dab his legs. The poor thing seems just flustered enough to do that. “I’ll take the check. Now.”

“Of course,” she says, hurrying off.

“Thank you,” I call after her, then turn back to him. “That was a little gruff.”

He stiffens and stops blotting the stains, his head coming up. “Have you seen my pants?”

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