Page 53 of Angel Eyes

My eyes returned to his.

I did want to talk to someone about Gabriel. And preferably not Ember or Simone, who were both too biased to give me an objective opinion. All week, the memory of Saturday had consumed all my available headspace. Had I made the right decision in keeping the truth from Gabriel? In no version of reality did I want to be just friends with him. I wanted more.

So much more.

“He doesn’t do relationships.”

No matter how often I repeated the words, my heart deflated a little more each time.

Cristian scoffed. “Well, that’s a lie.”

“But he said—”

“Listen to me, darling. All men do relationships when they find the right person.” He finished his espresso and dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief. “Whatever he may have told you, trust me when I say, all of it will go straight out the window if he wants you.”

I took in a shallow breath, trying to contain the wellspring of hope filling my chest, while Cristian patted his pockets as though searching for something.

“May I borrow your pen?” He plucked it from the edge of the table without waiting for a response and turned the flyer over, scribbling something at the bottom.

“My advice to you is if you want to be more than friends with”—he paused, a muscle feathering in his jaw—“Gabriel, then I suggest you have an honest conversation with him. He might say he doesn’t want a relationship, but that doesn’t mean he won’t change his mind for you.” His eyes raked over me. “I’m guessing he will if he hasn’t already.”

He rose abruptly, swiping the folder from the table.

“Ms. Chandler, it was truly a pleasure.” He bowed his head again like he’d done at the start of our strange meeting, and I gaped at him as he retreated a step.

“Wait—”

“I do hope to see you on opening night.”

Before I could utter another word, he crossed the room and disappeared through the exit.

Nineteen

Cristian

The minute I cleared the gates of the student center building, I tossed the empty manila folder in the trash and scanned the street for my waiting car. Spotting the black Mercedes on the opposite corner, I headed for it, extracting the phone vibrating in my pocket.

Caleb Martin.

Staunching a groan of irritation, I swiped right to answer.

“If you’re calling to tell me our liquor license has been delayed, I suggest you hang up and consider putting your excellent charisma skills to better use down at city hall.”

He snorted. “No, we should have the license in hand in advance of the opening. Though, now that you mention it, as operator of the establishment, you’ll need to complete a basic training course before they can issue it. You know, the one that covers things like the prevention of alcoholism, the protection of minors—”

“Yes, I know what it is. How long does it take?”

“Ah.” He cleared his throat. “Approximately twenty hours over two days.”

I pursed my lips. “Fine. Have Amélie schedule it and put it on my calendar.” I slid into the backseat as my driver and personal assistant, Maximilien, looked at me in the rearview mirror.

“Where to, monsieur?” he said, the scar across his right cheek stretching as he spoke.

“Le restaurant, merci.”

Thank you. A phrase I didn’t employ with any regularity, but used occasionally with Max.

I had met Max six months earlier when his employer at the time, a British diplomat, visited our establishment in Villefranche-sur-Mer. While sharing a cigarette behind the restaurant, I’d learned his boss was returning to London and thus would no longer need Max’s services. Our arrangement fell into place quite neatly after that, and since then, I’d discovered my instincts about Max were spot-on. He was efficient, discreet, only spoke when necessary, and asked minimal questions.

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