Page 65 of French Martini

He nods. “Raincheck.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, standing and composing his clothes.

“Do you want me to come with you or stay up here?”

He looks at me like I’ve turned green before his eyes. “I want you with me. At all times, mister.”

“You got it, gorgeous.”

“Might want to wipe your face too. Smudged lipstick isn’t your look.”

Chuckling, I rub at my lips. “Fair.”

I watch Lowen dig in his overnight bag and pull out another smaller bag, then head to the bathroom while I look out the windows at the massive pool below. Even closed, it’s still a nice area.

When Lowen reappears, his lipstick is perfect again and his bitch face is in place. “I’m ready.”

“Stunning.” I offer my arm and he takes it. “By the way, if I do too much, just let me know. Maybe a secret code word.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Secret code word?”

“Sure. If I do something you don’t like, you just say the word and I’ll know to rein it in.”

“Fine. I doubt it’ll be necessary, but why not?”

“What’s your least favorite food?”

“Hmm.” He taps his chin for a second. “I hate walnuts, and they’re in so many things.”

Chuckling, I nod. “Walnuts it is.”

We head out of the room and back down to the lobby in silence. I can sense how nervous he is by the way he clutches my arm, and when the elevators open on the bottom floor, he blows out a breath, squares his shoulders, and walks out with his head high.

We navigate the hallway to the lobby on our way to the bar, and then he stops. I follow his gaze and know exactly what he sees. It’s him.

“Alain is here.”

Leaning in, I kiss his temple. “He can’t do anything to you. This is your house, Lowen.”

He turns to me, his eyes slightly panicked, then right before my eyes, he erases all emotion, displaying nothing more than the perfect public face he’s cultivated.

“Time to raise some hell,” he whispers.

“That’s my spicy kitten.”

NINETEEN

LOWEN

I don’t knowwhat I expected or how I thought it would feel to see Alain again, but it’s nauseating. The barrage of humiliating, unkind, and downright evil things he did and said to salvage his own reputation tumble down on me like bricks, but Oakley’s strong and steady pressure beside me, holding my hand, arm touching mine, grounds me and helps me maintain my composure.

Alain hasn’t noticed me yet, but the man standing beside him has, and when our eyes meet, I’m shaken. He looks like a younger version of me. His cheeks even blush pink as he tucks a lock of blondish brown hair behind his ear.

“Oh god,” I mutter.

“What?”

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