Page 113 of The Rebound Plan

I wave at my jeans and flannel shirt. “I do my best.”

“A fancy gown or a country hunting outfit, it makes no difference to me. It’s all very nice draped over a chair in the corner.”

I blush.

“Speaking of which, I bought a hunting lodge in Scotland.”

At the unexpected mention of Russell’s home country, I jolt. “Why?”

“Why not?”

And I suppose for billionaires, it is just that simple. Real estate is an investment. An apartment in New York, a lodge in Scotland, a compound in the Middle East. Wherever Francois does business, he needs a place to sleep.

And fuck.

“Maybe I’ll visit you there someday,” I say around the lump in my throat. “With a friend?”

“Not your husband?”

I shake my head. “Not my husband.”

As we drink our wine, I tell him almost everything. I leave out the most intimate details between me and Russ. The conversation on the dock. How hard it was to say goodbye when we left the cottage. The bone-deep aching pain, knowing I was leaving with the wrong person.

But in broad strokes, I confess to my old friend how I fell in love with someone, maybe for the first time.

“I don’t know what comes next.”

“Does he want to play in the Ice League?”

I laugh at the suggestion. “Russ? I don’t know. Probably not. He wouldn’t want me to ask you, anyway.”

“But your husband not only wanted you to ask me, he blackmailed you into doing so.” He shrugs. “Ma chérie, the choice could not be more clear.”

“I really don’t want to be married to him for another year.”

He glances at his watch. “Then I suggest you remove yourself to the bedroom and change into something appropriate so I can introduce you to some powerful people in the American Foreign Service. I’ve heard they can be helpful at times.”

“Helpful to billionaires, yes. Small town girls from Michigan who want a divorce, not so much.”

“Du pareil au même.” He smiles. “It’s all the same when you’re on my arm.”

Francois doesn’t come straight out and ask anyone if they can help me get a divorce. It’s much more subtle than that. He makes sure they know my name. He makes sure they know I’m an old friend. And he gets their assurance that if I run into any difficulties as an ex-pat living in Canada on a spousal visa, I can use their name with the consulate.

“The Foreign Service can grease a lot of wheels, right?” He says it over and over again, and each time I want to cry, because I was willing to spread my legs to get this man to help Max, when really I should have known that he would have helpedmefor absolutely nothing.

Kiley’s point about friendship not being contingent on anything rings through my mind.

Francois is also delighted that I know Livy already, and insists I must come to France with her at some point soon.

“I won’t be able to afford that soon,” I point out. And I hold up my hands. “Which is how it’s just going to have to be. It’s time for me to learn how to be self-sufficient.”

“I can’t offer you a job as my muse emeritus?”

I tip my head back and laugh.

When I look at him again, still smiling, there’s a spark of heat in his eyes. But it’s restrained, as if he understands that there’s no corresponding fire burning in my belly to take him back to The Lyle tonight.

He brushes a loose strand of hair off my cheek. “When are you flying home?”

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