Page 203 of Scoring the Player
“How about the Chapel?” he suggests.
“Cool. See you in an hour.”
CHAPTER 50
SALEM
“Right this way,” the hostess says, leading me to our table.
After years of feeling tens of thousands of eyes on me a few nights a week, you’d think I’d be used to the glances thrown my way, but it never feels natural. Lucien comes into view, impeccably dressed as always, typing on his phone, undoubtedly running his empire with never a minute to spare, not even to remove his coat.
“Here we are. I’ll let your server know the full party is here.”
At the sound of the hostess’s voice, his head pops up.
“Hey!” He eases into a stand, his black tailored coat falling in clean lines.
“What’s up?”
“Still single?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I breathe around the scrape in my chest. “Why?”
“Good. Now that you’re out, we can finally do this…” He leans up and presses a soft kiss to my lips.
My first public kiss that day in the Castro with Blue blinks to life, and I wince from the memory.
Lucien pulls back, peels off his oversized shades, and takes a good look at me. “Mon dieu.Ce que ça fait du bien.”
I grin back. “Glad it was worth the wait.”
His fingers press into the sides of my waist. “You’re actually out.”
I huff a laugh. “Wild, right?”
“Come on.” He signals for the waiter as he folds into the booth. “We’ll celebrate!”
“A bottle of your Bollinger 1996 Vieilles Vignes Françaises, please,” he orders when the waiter arrives.
“What are you doing over there?” He shoots me a puzzled glance. “Viens.”
Instead of waiting for me to come to him, he shifts to the spot next to me. He leans forward, and I help him out of his coat. Resting it neatly across the bench, he straightens his crisp, waist-length white shirt, patting down the high collar and double chest pockets clasped by small, brown buttons.
He crosses his legs, which are encased in camel-colored wool slacks, then fixes his belt so the braid hangs decoratively to the side.
He winks, his bronze skin flawless, like he keeps to his monthly esthetician visits. “Oui, I’m still fabulous.”
I smile. “Always.”
“Last we spoke, you were baking a cake.”
God, that feels like a century ago.
His brown eyes scan my face. “Merde!” He frowns.
The champagne arrives.
After we toast, he says, “Tell me.”
