Page 70 of Tempest

“A French artist, Colette Durand, is doing a pop-up exhibition next week in Paris. I bought flights.”

Well, that’s…awfully fucking presumptuous of him.

“I can’t go with you,” I say. “In fact, I can’t see you anymore. Not like that.”

“Are you friend-zoning me, Odette?” he asks, sitting back in his chair.

“I am,” I tell him, then thank the server as she sets my tea in front of me.

“Because of the hockey player?”

“Because we were never going anywhere, Preston. It’s been fun, but it’s run its course.”

“And if I don’t agree?” he asks, taking a sip of his wine. He doesn’t thank servers. It was something I noticed right off but thought it was more of a distraction thing than rudeness. Over the course of the past couple of months, I’ve realized it’s a personality trait. Preston is somewhat of an elitist. A snob. The more comfortable he was with me, the more he let that show.

“You’re entitled to your opinion,” I state calmly. “You aren’t entitled to me.”

“Noted,” he says. “The ticket is yours anyhow. You can come as a friend.”

“I’m not sure I can squeeze Paris into my schedule next week.”

“Well, keep it in mind. Just in case something frees up,” he says, and I get the feeling he’s not taking me seriously. As if he thinks I’ll be inviting him back to my bed in a matter of days.

Here I was thinking I didn’t take rejection well.

“No, not the Armani,” I say, opening the door to Gavin. I wave him in while I try to finish up the conversation. “Stacia, no. Trust me, you want the Wun. I promise you, it is not too much, it’s perfect.”

“Fallon said the same,” she says.

“Trust him, too. He’s got a better eye than I do.”

“That’s bullshit, but fine. I’ll wear the Wun.”

“Perfect, you’ll look gorgeous in it.”

“Thank you, Odette.”

“Anything for you, darling,” I say before ending the call.

“Stacia Carmichael?” Gavin asks.

“Mmhmm,” I confirm as he wraps me in a hug.

“The hottest thing in pop music Stacia Carmichael?”

“How much do you know about pop music?” I ask, wrinkling my nose at him.

“As much as Tori tells me, she’s a big fan. I took her to a Stacia concert when she was twelve.”

“She puts on a great show, I bet you had a good time.”

“I did, actually,” he says, lifting me off my feet and walking us into the living room. “Did you take care of that thing?”

“By thing, do you mean Preston?”

“Is that stuffy dude’s name?”

“You know it is,” I say, raising an eyebrow. He sits on my sofa, arranging me on his lap. I love that he’s so much bigger than me, that he’s strong enough to manhandle me to his heart’s delight. It’s nice to relinquish some control for once.

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