Page 71 of French Martini

One thing about me is that when I want something I’m like a dog with a bone, and I want Lowen. Not for now. Forever.

I’m pretty sure we’re almost there.

TWENTY-ONE

LOWEN

It’s finallyFriday night and I’m exhausted. Sitting in the bathroom, adding concealer under my eyes, I envision myself accepting the award, Oakley in the audience beaming proudly. I have to block out the rest of it.

It’s been a huge chore avoiding Alain in such an intimate group of people, but my thinly veiled warning on Monday must have scared him off. If I were to tell my side of the story, he’d never live it down. They think they know who Alain Durand is, but they have no idea. His talent has allowed people to forgive and overlook his many shortcomings, but they only know a fraction of it.

Oakley’s playing classic rock music on his phone, lying in bed after his shower with his eyes closed and his arms tucked beneath his head. He only has a loosely wrapped towel around his waist and the desire to walk in there and get us both dirty again is strong.

As I add powder to my face, my thoughts drift back over the last four days with Oakley. We’ve spent it talking and sharing ideas about future projects. He drove me by the building he’s going to work on with Yves Orpheus and we’ve arranged for me to meet him next week. He’s been doting on me, making sure Ialways have coffee or snacks or a hand to hold at every forced event, and at night, he drains every ounce of stress away so that I can sleep.

It’s been… perfect. Everything I thought I was getting with Alain. A true partner. Someone who values me and makes me feel cherished. I feel more beautiful than I ever have every time he looks at me. Only a fool would make any attempt to end this, and I’m not a fool.

I don’t know what to do next though. How to navigate what’s in my head. Do I just tell him that I want to keep it going but I might shut down and fuck it up at some point? Do I admit that I’m terrified of ruining his opinion of me and the way we work together? Do I jump in even though I’m scared?

I blow out a breath and focus on my makeup, trim the facial hair growing in, and style my hair. When I come out of the bathroom, Oakley is snoring softly. Poor guy. He’s never had to endure a solid week of events like this while still fielding questions from his team.

“Wake up, big bear,” I whisper, leaning in to run my hand over his belly.

He snorts, peeling his eyes open, then stretches his arms above his head. “Shit. Am I running late?”

“Not at all. I’m about to get dressed. The bathroom is free now.”

Oakley rubs his eyes then sits up, focusing on me. “Holy fuck.”

“What?”

He shakes his head. “You look like an angel.”

Playing with his beard, I smile. “I’m glad you think so. Wait until you see the outfit. It was designed just for me.”

“Can’t wait.”

I grab his wrist and tug him out of bed. “Shoo. Go get ready.”

“I’m going.” He kisses my neck and grabs my ass through the silk robe. “I can’t believe I even get to stand next to you, much less touch you.”

“If you’re a good bear, you can touch me a lot later.”

“Grr.”

We both laugh as Oakley disappears into the bathroom. Once he closes the door, I exhale, shake out my shoulders then put on the underwear I chose for the night. They’re a creamy blush so they blend in, adding a touch of scandal to an already daring sheer outfit.

I spritz myself with my fragrance and then a light spray of body glitter to catch the lights. Finally, it’s time to shimmy into this masterpiece Belle designed. Carefully, I slip into it, gently tugging the soft silk into place, then slide my feet into my sky-high pumps.

I study my reflection in the mirror, and for the first time in my adult life, I don’t recognize it. This isn’t me anymore. Yes, I still like pretty things—I adore this outfit—but the rest of it is so… artificial. My expression is practiced, curated, part of the persona I’ve built to keep people out. I let them speculate about me and say horrible, untrue things because I thought taking the high ground would make it stop.

This week has been a reminder of how fake it all is. The same people who wrote those horrible things smiled to my face. They wrote their little updates in their articles about what we wore, how we looked, who we were with.

I learned all about Alain’s new man, Gerard. At twenty-six, he’s far too young to be dating a man knocking on fifty, but what bothered me the most was how the article talked nonstop about how Alain mentored him, took him under his wing, and elevated his name. Not a single word was written about what Gerard thinks or wants for his life, or what his accomplishments werebefore he met Alain. The constant comparison to me must sting too.

Oh well. One more night. Tomorrow morning, we’ll go back to Willow Bay and our quiet lives and put all this behind us. I’ll have my vindication that I did matter in that world. I contributed to the beauty of Paris, and now I’ll make Willow Bay even better.

The bathroom door opens and Oakley steps out still in his towel, but his beard is cleaned up and brushed and his hair is styled. He turns in my direction and his jaw drops.

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