Page 46 of Fierce

“Yes, you did. And he got it, too, after you pointed it out. I hardly had to say a thing.”

“Face it, Hope,” she said, one hand on her hip. “You always date losers. And now you finally get a totally smokin’, filthy-rich guy who lets me puke on him, and you bore him to death talking about global warming or the endangered African elephant and the ivory trade or something, so he leaves? I hate to remind you, but I don’t have a college fund.”

“Hemi is not going to send you to college. You are dreaming.” Ooh. He’d sent wine again. Pinot Noir this time. Completely sneaky and unfair.

“Well, he sent us some pretty good lunch, anyway.” She was pulling containers out of the plastic bag and peeking inside. “Thai chicken noodle soup. Score.”

I caught the sweet, spicy aroma of fresh ginger, saw gorgeously clear broth, fat noodles, and chunks of chicken that hadn’t come out of any can, and my mouth watered. The other containers, I found, held more Thai food. Vegetables, chicken, beef, and rice. Perfect. And so much of it, we’d make dinner out of it, too.

My phone rang, and Karen looked at me, her expression stern. “If that’s him, do not tell him he shouldn’t have.”

I stuck my tongue out at her, and she laughed and went to the cupboard for dishes.

I punched the button to answer, but I didn’t say “Hello.” Instead, I said, “Karen says I’m not supposed to say you shouldn’t have. But I’m still going to say it. You shouldn’t have. How’d you find the exact right roses? On Sunday? And how’d you know chicken noodle soup would be almost the only thing she could eat right now?”

“I could tell you how,” he said, “but I’m scared to.”

If there’d been a cord to twine around my finger while I talked to him, I’d have done it. Instead, I leaned against the table and fingered the frilled edge of a lavender petal. “Mm. Because I’ll give you another lecture about how I’m not for sale. Regrettably, roses and lunch seem to be my weak spot. But sending them to Karen, too? That’s below the belt, don’t you think?”

“Ah. But you see, below the belt is where I do my best work. She feeling better today?” he asked before I could respond to that one. “The ginger’s meant to be for the nausea, eh.”

“Such a good idea, and she really appreciates it. So do I.” There. That was gracious for once, and I meant it, too. I did appreciate it. “She’s feeling much better, thanks. I guess the medicine did the trick. So it looks like I’m going to Paris next week after all. But I have a feeling I’m going to be pretty busy there, and I know you will be. I put the schedule together.”

“You forget one thing,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“I’m the boss.”

So I left Karen and went to Paris.

A woman named Debra called me and introduced herself, and after a thorough conversation, in the course of which I realized I couldn’t do better and had no excuse for refusing her, came over on Tuesday night. She didn’t seem one bit fazed at the prospect of sleeping on the couch, and was, as Hemi had promised, thoroughly competent. In fact, she was so sure of herself, she scared me. And I’d bet she didn’t come cheap, because it turned out that she was a nurse.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Karen had said when she’d heard the plan. “Besides, how can you afford it?”

“The company’s paying for it,” I’d said, although I was pretty sure “the company” wasn’t.

“But I still don’t need one. Anyway, I didn’t know they did stuff like that.”

Of course she needed one, and of course they didn’t do stuff like that. And of course I shouldn’t have accepted it. And of course I had.

I flew to Paris on the redeye, and after that, it seemed like I hardly slept for a week. It was exciting, and hectic, and crazy. Full-on, running from dawn until dark, but not so very different, really, from working with Vincent. I just had a new person snapping at me. But there was one important difference. I was in Paris, not in a photography studio or Central Park. All right, I was in a conference room in Paris, and only occasionally at a show or an event, but still. It was Paris. People were speaking French around me and smoking too much. The real deal.

All the same, I didn’t see Hemi to speak to until Tuesday night, at the reception following his show. I was wandering around, checking off the journalists in attendance, when I turned to find him at my elbow instead of in the distance.

“You’re wearing the right shoes tonight,” were his first words to me. “Unfortunately.”

It was the blue and silver dress again, despite Martine’s dismissive glance when I’d appeared in it four long hours ago to help supervise the setup. I knew it was last year’s, but I couldn’t help that, because it was the only cocktail dress I owned. But I was wearing silver sandals with it tonight, because Hemi was right—they were what the dress needed.

I wasn’t feeling very glamorous, though. My feet were aching, my smile felt pasted on, and my hair was going limp. Hair I was resolutely not touching right now, lips I was being careful not to lick, no matter how much Hemi inspired the age-old need to draw attention to myself, to send out those female attraction-markers.

But, yes. Seven A.M. had been a very long time ago. Hemi’s day, I was sure, had been as long as mine, but since he never looked anything but cool and perfectly pulled together, you’d never have known it.

“That’s right,” I said, kicking up one foot behind me and going for perky, since I didn’t have “elegant” at my disposal. “See how I match? But I’ve been wearing your shoes all week, and they’ve been great. No chance I’m giving them back now, no matter how mad you make me. Congratulations on today, too. Everybody said it was amazing.”

“Everybody said?” His gaze was searching, as always. “What did you think?”

“That it was amazing, of course.”

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