Page 42 of Serving the Couturier

She laughed again and leaned closer, her breasts pressing against my arm. “Aren’t you just precious?”

I chuckled. I’d been called a lot of things, but I didn’t think a woman had ever called me precious.

“Things went so well tonight,” she continued. “We should celebrate together.”

Her fingers tightened on my arm, and I shifted, taking her hand between mine and holding it to keep her from wandering. “Ah, but I’m afraid I’m on a tight schedule tonight. A producer’s work is never done, you know.”

“There you are!” I heard Timothy’s voice, and I breathed a sigh of relief. If he was looking for me, it gave me the perfect excuse to extricate myself from this situation.

But as I turned, I saw Timothy wasn’t talking to me. London was just a few yards away, her face a delicate flush and her lips pressed together in a firm line. By the time I realized she had seen Alice flirting with me, London and Timothy had left—together.

Bollocks.

“So, what do you say?” Alice purred, pressing closer to me. “Shall we celebrate the successful preview with a bottle of the finest champagne money can buy?”

I raised an eyebrow, trying to keep my tone light. “I’m afraid I have to decline. Duty calls, you see.”

“Oh, come on,” Alice pressed, pouting slightly. “Surely you can spare a little time for some... celebration?”

“I’m sorry, but I have to go. My lead cast is waiting for me.” I said firmly, extricating myself from her grasp.

“Well, a rain check then.” Alice said, giving me a sly smile. “I’ll hold you to it.”

I didn’t give her a response. My mind was already on London, who I had spotted leaving with Timothy. I quickly made my way out of the theater, my heart racing as I tried to come up with a way to stop her and make her stay. But by the time I stepped out into the crisp winter night, they were nowhere to be found.

Bloody hell.

I stepped back inside but didn’t return to the chaos and noise backstage. Instead, I ducked into an alcove where I knew I’d have some privacy, and I took out my mobile and rang her. Straight to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. This wasn’t the sort of thing to be discussed over the phone.

I tried not to be too discouraged as I emerged from my hiding place and headed back the way I’d come. Cast and crew turned their phones—or at least their ringers––off during performances. I doubted London had even looked at her mobile yet, let alone turned it back on. I’d wait a bit and ring her again.

I only made it halfway down the corridor before I tried again. As before, the call went straight to voicemail.

Fuck.

* * *

I finally mademy way back to my hotel room after what felt like an eternity. The entire night, people wouldn’t stop congratulating me for producing a marvelous show. Every time I thought I had a chance to slip away, someone else would grab my arm, telling me how amazing the performance was.

By the time I made it to my room, I was ready for a stiff drink. On my way back, I’d picked up a bottle of whiskey from the liquor store, and I didn’t waste any time pouring myself a glass. I was halfway through it when my phone rang. I didn’t even bother to look at the caller ID. I just answered.

“Hello?” I slurred into the phone.

“Is that how a York answers the telephone?” My grandmother’s sharp voice was like ice water or coffee when it came to sober a person. “Grandmother?”

“Do you always answer the phone sounding like a drunken person?”

“What time is it?” I squinted at my watch.

“Seven-thirty. A perfectly reasonable time for the day to begin.”

I closed my eyes and decided not to remind her it wasn’t seven-thirty in the morning here.

“Is something wrong, Grandmother?”

“Why would something be wrong? Can’t a grandmother call her grandson?”

“At seven-thirty in the morning?” I couldn’t keep the skepticism from my voice.

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