Icy Pretty Love (6 page)

He’s right. I was entirelyß myself around him yesterday. Without even thinking. Usually I keep a tight lid on the real Rae Grove, letting her out only around people who I’m sure won’t hurt her.

You have to be careful who you let see the real you. If you wear a mask and someone chips it, it doesn’t matter. But leave your true heart exposed? Pieces of that won’t grow back.

What is it about him that cuts through my defenses like butter?

“I was thinking I’d save you from the real me.” I smile. “She has a temper and no filter. She’s stubborn and takes up too much space. Girls like her don’t get far in life.”

He’s quiet for a little while. “You don’t seem to like her very much,” he says, his voice controlled, betraying nothing.

“Who would?” I yawn and stretch. “Georgette’s much better. You’ll see. I’ll slip into her easier if you let me be her all the time.”

“No.” His voice is hard and sure. Miraculously, he doesn’t make a joke out of ‘slip into her.’ “Be yourself. I get enough pretending from the other people in my life.” He pauses, and then says so quietly I barely hear him, “If you hide who really are long enough, you’ll lose her.”

“How am I going to be myself if I’m supposed to talk to you as little as possible?” I tease.

“When you do speak to me, I’d prefer if it you were your annoying self.” He finally glances at me. I pride myself on being able to tell what a man is thinking, but his face is a locked safe and the key’s at the bottom of the ocean. “It’s…”

“It’s what?”

“Nothing.” He returns his gaze to the window.

Huh. Cohen Ashworth, mystery man of the century. The biggest mystery is the warm glow his words lit in my stomach. I scoot closer, which is a stupid idea, because he turns to me again—full lips angular cheekbones ice eyes—and the proximity is enough to set off a whole new warm glow in my stomach, albeit of a very different kind. Stop it, Rae. That warmth will never be stoked into a fire and you know it.

I want to tell him I know what he really is, that it’s okay and I’ll keep his secret, but before I can, the car gravels to a stop. Cohen gets out and holds the door open for me again.

“Chivalry isn’t really what I expected from you,” I remark, smoothing the lace on my lap.

“You’re my fiancé, remember?” His lips curve in a sardonic smile. A very kissable sardonic smile. Ugh.

He holds out his arm and I take it. I’ve never walked anywhere like this with a man. If I’m going somewhere with a client and our body parts are touching, it’s usually his hand on my ass. His mouth on my lips. I shudder and remind myself to be thankful that Cohen is flying the rainbow flag.

Although he doesn’t seem to wear anything but black and gray.

We walk into the restaurant together. It’s like a dragon’s lair. Everything is golden—golden light, golden walls, golden people. The floors are polished like mirrors. I look down and I can see my own face, small and overwhelmed. I banish the overwhelmed, but keep the small. This is Georgette Montgomery’s home turf. It doesn’t matter if Rae Grove is still waiting to be kicked out like a rat that scurried in to get out of the cold.

I didn’t know that waiters wore those funny-looking grasshopper outfits in real life, or that there were people who could carry silver platters covered in champagne flutes one-handed. I didn’t know that there were restaurant ceilings so high, or live music so beautiful. I didn’t know that people could be this happy. Suddenly I want to cry.

Stop it, Rae. Stop it. Just because you’re in the fox’s den and wearing furry ears, it doesn’t mean you’re not still prey.

“This way.” Cohen guides my elbow gently and the rest of me follows.

A waiter chases us down and says something in French, probably along the lines of
may we help you, sir?

“I’m here with a party of two,” he says abruptly, without stopping his stride into the dining room. He walks like someone who wants to get this over with as quickly as possible.

The waiter switches to English. “Then allow me to—”

“I could never stand that attitude waiters have that I’m too stupid to handle my own business,” Cohen snaps. “I know who I’m here to meet and I’ll find them myself.”

The waiter blanches. I blink, my mouth slightly open. It’s the first interaction I’ve seen Cohen have with someone other than me, Renard, or his father, the latter who deserved the cutting tone. I’m starting to understand why they had to hire someone like me, someone used to poor treatment, to play his fiancé.

I’m about to demand he apologize when I look up and see the fine line at the corner of his mouth. He’s worried this isn’t going to work.

“Relax,” I tell him quietly. “I’ve got this under control.”

He starts, like he isn’t sure how I responded correctly to something he didn’t say, but before he can ask, we’re at the table.

“Ah, Cohen.” The older man who stands up is the definition of grandfatherly—dust-grey hair swept neatly back from his forehead, skin like well-worn tissue paper, smile lines etched around his mouth and eyes. “How wonderful to see you again.”

Though his French accent is strong, his English is impeccable. He grasps Cohen’s hand like he’s known him forever. The other two people at the table—a guy in his twenties with an underbite that could catch a school of fish and a stunning woman with ruby earrings—look me up and down.

“And this,” says the older man reverently, releasing Cohen’s hand and reaching for mine, “must be her.”

There’s a moment of awkward silence in which Cohen fails to introduce me.

“You must be Mr. LeCrue,” I twinkle, offering a firm yet delicate shake. “I’ve heard so much about you. I’m Georgette Montgomery, and, well—” I look down, summoning a blush. “You must have heard the news.”

“Heard I did, but believe I did not—until now.” LeCrue shakes his head and lets out a whoosh of breath. Cohen still hasn’t said a word. Impatience and irritation emanate from him in an itchy cloud. He might as well be yelling about how stupid he thinks this whole thing is. I can only hope he doesn’t blow it.

The underbite guy stands up and slaps Cohen on the back with the air of a nerdy high schooler trying to act like one of the cool jocks. “Nice one, Cohen,” he leers. Cohen gives him one look and he removes his hand immediately, turning to me instead. “You’re way too gorgeous to have to put up with Mr. Attitude. What’s your damage?”

Georgette blushes some more. I decide, with complete finality, I do not like this guy.

“Miss Montgomery, this is my son, Claude,” says LeCrue reproachfully. “And his wife, Annabelle. Please do sit down.”

Stiffly, Cohen pulls out a chair for me next to Annabelle. I take my seat. Annabelle leans over, winks, and whispers, “Once they’re drunk, we’ll have a chance for some girl talk.”

All I can do for a moment is stare at her. She’s a real Georgette Montgomery. It’s like she’s full of light, and it leaks out wherever it can—through her eyes, her smile, the pearly polish on her fingernails, the silvery trim on her dress. Her rich dark hair is twisted up in a knot at the back of her head, held with a butterfly pin. Her eyes speak of secrets and promise. She’s never crept out of a stranger’s bedroom at three in the morning, hidden her bruises with makeup and sideswept bangs…I blink and remember to smile shyly.

She looks up at Cohen and nods in greeting. I don’t miss the way her eyes linger. Interesting.

“I’ve already ordered appetizers and drinks. I think you’ll find the vintage Domaine Pinot Noir here to be to your satisfaction indeed.” LeCrue smiles. Cohen still hasn’t said anything. It’s strange. Is he nervous? But judging by the way he spoke to that waiter, I guess, it’s definitely possible that silence is the closest he can come to being polite.

“Is it the 1984?” I inquire. Fancy wine people make more wine every year. Pull one out of a hat and you’ll sound like an expert.

“You’ve picked a young lady who knows her drink, Cohen! A girl after my own heart.” LeCrue chuckles like a department store Santa. “The 1979, in fact. But I think you’ll appreciate the notes of dark cherry.”

Annabelle is still grinning at me like we’re sharing our most private thoughts. What kind of face would she make if she knew what was really going on?

“How did you two even meet?” Claude demands. A fleck of spit flies from his upper lip and lands on the tablecloth.

“Oh, you don’t want to hear that silly story,” I laugh lightly.

“Trust me when I say that I do. It must have been a seriously miraculous circumstance for you not to have immediately run the other way!” He elbows Cohen, whose face goes from stony to Ice Age. Claude is one more bro-touch away from getting his lights punched out.

LeCrue is staring at me expectantly. So is Annabelle. I’m going to need to invent something even Nicholas Sparks couldn’t come up with to convince them that any sane girl would want to marry Cohen Ashworth.

But if there’s anything I’m good at, it’s making things up.

“I was running late the night we met,” I begin, sprinkling my words with demure sideways glances at Cohen. “I’m from America, you see, and I moved to Paris to take care of my ailing mother, who…” I sniff. No harm in adding an emotional element. “The doctor said that night could be her last.”

Annabelle rubs my hand. I soldier on. “I was in a rush to get to the hospital and say goodbye to her in time. We both called for the same cab. Cohen looked like the kind of important man who would keep a cab for himself, but he glanced at me and, without a word, let me have it.”

The most important thing when telling a story is to have consistent characters. If I fed them some soup about Cohen doing something incredible, they wouldn’t believe it for a second. Small things, that’s the key.

“I couldn’t get him out of my mind after that. He was so very…handsome.” That last part’s true, at least. Somewhere in Paris there’s a gay guy having dinner and daydreaming about his sexy rich boyfriend. “I never expected to see him again. But I did, three days after dear Mama Montgomery passed on. It was pouring rain and I had no umbrella. Suddenly this man walks out of the shop next to me, hands me his umbrella without a word, and walks off again, getting soaking wet.”

All three of them are leaning forward now, fascinated. Cohen is pretending not to listen, but I can tell he’s impressed.

“I wanted to return his umbrella, so…”

I weave them a tale of investigation and success, of small kindnesses, of learning to see the man behind the mask. It’s all crap, of course. The mask is always the man. If you go hunting for humanity under a garden of razors, you’ll cut yourself to shreds. But they love it. People always love that type of story. At the end, I kick Cohen under the table and he grudgingly covers my hand with his.

“Incredible.” There are actually tears in LeCrue’s eyes. “I am so delighted for you, Cohen. Truly. I always knew you would find happiness, despite everything…I always told your father that the choices a man makes in his youth do not define him.”

“So you’re really engaged, then.” Claude stares at me and shakes his head. “When I heard the rumor, I kept asking Annabelle if it was April Fools. Didn’t I?”

“You did,” says Annabelle with the tolerant amusement of a woman used to the idiocy of her husband.

“I look forward to spending more time with you, Georgette—may I call you that? I’ll need to get to know you if I’m going to be selling my company to your future husband.”

Silence falls over the table, as hard as the clang of a bell. Just as it does, the waiter returns, passing out glasses of wine as red as Annabelle’s earrings and plates of food I’ve never seen before. Tiny, rubbery-looking black-brown things swimming in garlic and butter. Delicate rings of squid in a sauce as black as ink. Slices of fresh mozzarella and tomato with artful splashes of balsamic vinegar. My mouth fills with enough saliva to keep Niagara Falls running for a week.

Nobody touches the food. Cohen’s expression is tense, like there’s something he’s not daring to let himself believe. “Do you mean that?” he says quietly.

Another long moment where nobody touches the food. I clear my throat. “Anyone mind if I…”

“Father.” Claude’s dopey boyish face suddenly has a lot more edges. “You know I dislike it when you joke like that.”      

I extend a hand gingerly toward the squid before catching sight of Annabelle. Her face is sour and twisted, miles from the elegant, sisterly lady she was a minute ago. Suddenly I’m not hungry.

Nah, that’s a lie. I’m still hungry.

“This isn’t an offer,” LeCrue clarifies. There’s something clear-eyed and capable behind all the old-man harmlessness. “I’ll need to be sure, Cohen. You know I’ve always thought of you as one of my own. But you can’t deny you’ve been down dark paths before. This is a promising sign that you’re getting your life on the right track.”

“I’m already on the right track.” There’s hunger in Cohen’s eyes, but not for the food. “There’s no point in waiting.”

“While I do think you’re more than your choices, one can’t discount the fact that you were the one who made them. I need time. Time to make sure this young woman has changed you in the ways I hope she has.”

The young woman in question is currently groping surreptitiously for the plate of squid.

There’s a crash. Cohen has slammed his fist down on the table. I yank my hand back.

“Don’t play games with me,” he says darkly. “I’m the best man for this. You know I am.”

“That’s debatable,” Claude mutters.

LeCrue sighs, his wine untouched. For whatever reason, he’s trying to take a chance on Cohen…and Cohen’s disappointing him.

“I look forward to getting to know you better,” I say firmly. “I hope that we won’t let you down.”

Cohen is silent. LeCrue glances between the two of us. Apparently he’s willing to pretend that my response is from Cohen as well, because he nods, his face relaxing.

It’s the most socially awkward meal I’ve had since my cafeteria clique in middle school decided to stop speaking to me after I supposedly hit on Sally Beckham’s boyfriend. Annabelle’s good-natured friendliness has evaporated, along with Claude’s determined attempts to be Cohen’s best pal. They both sit silently, glaring at the two of us like we raided their fridge and stole all their favorite foods. LeCrue, who seems to be a man of few words as a rule, calmly sips his wine and asks me polite questions about my family. I feed him lie after lie and feed myself delicious bite after bite of filet mignon, taking advantage of everyone’s distracted expressions to order two entrees and a side dish of mussels.