Page 204 of Scoring the Player
And I do, starting with the press conference.
He interrupts to ask questions.
Two flutes of champagne later, he’s caught up, and with a click of his tongue, he rests his head on my shoulder. “I’m jealous of him. I’d have killed to have put a ring on your finger.”
I tilt my head to catch his eyes. “What?”
“I knew you had your eyes set on someone else. But I was happy to have whatever part of you I could.”
Wait, seriously? What? He always seemed happy with our arrangement.
“Luci—”
“Relax.” He pats my arm. “When you were with me, you were all in. But it sometimes felt like there was a clock ticking, and I wouldn’t have you forever.”
I lower the flute to the table and wipe my mouth—the bubbly turning noxious in my stomach. “I’m sorry. I never wanted you to feel like there was someone else. I’m sorry if I did.”
“Shh. I regret nothing,” he reassures.
I don’t understand. “Why waste time with me if you didn’t think you could have forever? If you wanted marriage?”
He shrugs. “All we really have is right now.”
I shake my head. “But it’s okay to want tomorrow, to plan for tomorrow, to want to spend the rest of your life with someone.”
“Maybe.” He flicks his hand side to side. “You’re an idealist. It’s charming, but it’s also intimidating. You see the potential in everything.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“You sometimes only see the potential. Which means anything short of it is insufficient. I loved the time we spent together. Why would I have suffered tomorrow’s loss when I still had you today?”
“But you wanted marriage?”
“Yes.”
“If I want marriage with someone, I could never settle for less than that,” I tell him.
“I know.” He rests his palm on top of mine. “It’s how I knew our time was limited.”
“No, that’s not what I meant.”
“It’s okay. Things work out as they should,” he says, then adds with a small smile, “I might have met someone.”
“Hold on. If I hurt you, Lucien…”
“You didn’t. I wouldn’t be sitting here if you did.”
My back settles against the booth. It’s true that he wouldn’t stand for being mistreated. Then his words from a moment ago register. “You met someone?”
“His name’s Olivier, and he’s a physicist specializing in the fundamental physics of quantum mechanics.”
“Sounds impressive.”
“Oui. I try to keep up with his work, but it all goes over my head like my work goes over his. Here he is.” He slides his phone over to me.
I whistle. “That’s how they make scientists in Paris?” He’s built like a club bouncer.
He chuckles. “C’est trop mignon.”
