Page 29 of French Martini

“Hmmf. Well, best of luck and all that, but if it falls through, you know where to find me.”

“I do. I appreciate you.”

“It’ll be fun. See you tomorrow.”

“Bye.”

Ah Sam, coming in clutch for me. He’s one of the few hookups who really knew how to keep things chill, likely because he doesn’t want to be tied down either. He spent more than half his adult life figuring out his gender and sexuality, and now that he’s a proud bisexual man, he rightfully wants to experience every flavor under the sun.

He also has great style, so I’m positive he can help me put my best foot forward. Lowen may not care what people say about me, but I do. I’d hate to punch anyone’s face in for disrespecting him or trying to tear him down, so the best I can do is try to look like a step up from Alain.

While I have my phone in my hand, I open the browser and search his ex-husband’s name again. The first time I saw Alain’s face I did think it was kind of weird that Lowen would be withsomeone like that. He looks like a snooty, uptight porcelain doll with his upturned nose, perfect skin, and bright blue eyes, but there’s something disconcerting about his looks. Artificial for sure. I’d even go so far as to say there’s malice in his eyes. If he was a doll you found in a closet, you’d be afraid of it.

I scroll through pictures of him and Lowen together, and every one of them is posed and curated. They were both aware of those cameras. Lowen never looks happy in any of them. Or relaxed. Not like he does when he’s with his friends. He laughs easily with them, and the more he’s around me, the more I see of the man behind the facade.

Not for the first time, I read through some of the articles about how it all went bad, alleging that it was Alain who couldn’t keep it in his pants. How the fuck do you have a man like Lowen in your bed and fumble that? What a loser.

I’m about to close out when a new article catches my eye. It’s about the awards ceremony, and as I scroll it, it mentions the awards and the honorees. Holy shit. Lowen seriously downplayed the award he’s getting. A lifetime contribution to Parisian architecture? Damn.

I scroll farther, reading quotes from the founders of the publication praising Lowen for his work and noting his absence from the city of lights. Is he that humble or that detached?

The article lists the presenters—a bunch of names I’ve never heard before—and the MCs, one of whom is Alain. There’s a quote from him too about what an honor it is to kick off the US based facility.

After clicking out of that article, I find the one announcing Alain’s engagement and get a look at his next victim. My jaw drops. The man he’s engaged to is a Lowen look-alike, but the poor man’s version. Younger, less polished, less vibrant. In fact, after scrolling through several pictures of the men Alain haschosen since his marriage ended, they all have a Lowen vibe, but they don’t quite nail it.

I laugh to myself. He knows he fumbled the prize. Fifty bucks says he’ll be jealous as hell when he sees me with Low. This is gonna be fun.

I pullup to the bank a few minutes after five, just as Sam is exiting the building. He’s wearing a fluffy white faux fur coat with a form fitting black suit, a bright coral shirt peeking out from under the jacket. He looks like he’s stepping off a fashion runway rather than finishing a day at work. I chose wisely.

He opens the passenger door of my truck and hops up. “Hey.”

“Hey, Sam. You look amazing.”

His shoulder length hair is pulled back in a low bun, and he smooths a hand over nonexistent flyaways. “Thanks. You look good. Happy.”

“I am. Where should we go?”

“What kind of clothes are you looking for?”

“It’s this fancy award show with several events during the week. Architecture and design.”

“Sounds posh. Is it cocktail or black tie?”

“Um.” I draw a blank. “I don’t know.”

“We need to know. Can you call someone?”

“Yeah. Hold on.” I grab my phone from the console and dial Lowen, knowing he might not hear the phone if he’s in the midst of something in the bar, but he answers quickly.

“Hey, Oak.”

“Hey. Sorry to bother you but I have a question about the events.”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Is it cocktail or black tie?”

“The events leading up to the awards ceremony are cocktail. The ceremony itself is black tie, but you could get away with a suit.”

---