Slower Read online

  “Why?” Jake shook his head.

  “Because I insulted our number one client.” The hanger for my light blue blouse scraped against the rail and swung after I grabbed the shirt. I slipped into my most boring pair of black heels and left the closet with Jake close behind.

  “Wait. Why does he want you to wear more dresses? Because he’s attracted to you?”

  That beast needed to be killed immediately. “Apparently he has some kind of French pride hang-up. And thinks I’m an elite socialite who needs to put her best foot forward at all times. Plus, he’s sexist. I’ve known that from day one. So is his cohort.”

  Merde.

  I walked to the door and grabbed the knob. Jake’s bare torso snaked between me and my quick exit. The wrinkles around his eyes deepened. “Who is his cohort?”

  I rubbed my lips together and Jake grumbled. Brooder.

  Saying Dimitri’s name was not going to happen. It wasn’t that I thought I needed to lie. It was just so painfully obvious who was on Team Vincent.

  Jake banged his head against the door three times and found my eyes. In a low voice, he said, “Talk to Mario. He won’t like this.”

  Huh? Dang, Jake really had been serious about not getting mad. Holy Crap.

  Bringing the situation up to Mario would be gamble: a new-ish employee he was frustrated with versus his oldest client. But honestly, The Drifting couldn’t have been going any worse. “He might fire me.”

  “Then he never deserved you.” Jake pulled me close. “Thank you for talking to me. And for the record, you don’t have to wait for me to ask.”

  “Can you break for dinner with me later? I suddenly miss you horribly.”

  He grinned, and my heart skipped a light beat. “I’d love that. I’ll make it happen.”

  The art of talking, while well practiced forty-five minutes prior, was still not something I wanted to do with Mario. My palms clammed up as he sat across from me in the conference room.

  “What happened?” Mario leveled me with a stare.

  I looked up at the ceiling tiles, but they didn’t offer any reprieve.

  “Just the facts please.” He worked his jaw.

  “Vincent told me I needed to wear more skirts.”

  Mario blinked in rapid succession. I couldn’t tell if it was good or bad. So I kept going.

  “He also hinted that I should break up with my boyfriend.” God, this was sounding like I was a huge fucking baby. Why had it seemed like such a huge deal when it happened?

  Mario pushed away from the table, slumped and swiveled his chair back and forth. “Did he touch you inappropriately?”

  “No.”

  My boss’s salt-and-pepper head dropped to the side, and he pinched his brow. “Hints and suggestions are not facts, Louana.”

  The phone rang from the other end of the table and I went to get it.

  “Vincent is here,” the receptionist said.

  “He’s here.” I swallowed.

  “Fucking great. Just fucking great.” Mario stood and left the chair swinging behind him. “I didn’t need any more tension on this project.” He glared over to me.

  “I’m sorry.” Fuck me. Why was I sorry? I followed Mario out with my head down and as soon as I saw Vincent he dropped his gaze to my legs.

  He smirked.

  The three of us walked back to Mario’s studio.

  “Mario,” Vincent started with a tight face. “I’m not sure I can work with someone who called me disgusting.”

  All air left my lungs in a whoosh.

  “I—”

  But the damage was done. Mario raised a hand in my direction. “Get out. Do something else. Anything else.”

  Horror rose from my empty chest to my tightening neck. I nodded and left the studio. I closed the door to my office and did the only thing I could. With a trembling lip, I called him.

  “Minette…”

  “Make it stop.”

  “Say the word.”

  Tears puddled in the corners of my eyes. Jake was right. Dimitri still had power over me. Power that would have killed Jake if he’d known. But it wasn’t love; it was desperation. I said the only thing I could to get my ex to stop flexing the muscles of his tight grip.

  “Sisplau.”

  8

  LOUANA

  * * *

  Casey dabbed the edge of his mouth with his cloth napkin and said, “I don’t know what you did, but it’s working.”

  The sweat from my overly iced water cooled my hand, and I took a sip. Lunch with Casey at an outdoor café usually brightened my day. But now it just served as a reminder that two weeks prior I’d had to beg my ex to stop playing games with my career.

  “Seriously,” my freckle-faced work bestie continued. “Everything is running so smoothly now. It’s like you’ve gotten him to lie down and show his tummy. Not that I would want that.” He shuddered.

  The moment Vincent had tried to powerplay me, I had debated telling Casey. But it would have put him in a terrible position with his boss and admitting what I’d done was not something I’d been ready to do. Jake was wrong. Talking helped nothing.

  “He said the two of you are going to France for two weeks.” I signaled for the check. “As well as it’s been going, I’m glad to have a break from him.”

  “Yeah, I really need to make a better effort with my French.” Casey slumped, and his bottom lip pouted. “It’s hard.”

  I smiled. “I can help you.”

  “That would be amazing. Plus, we’re going to a soccer game. There are bound to be hotties.”

  Figured. One small night of trying to avoid being alone with Dimitri and I’d constructed a transcontinental alliance.

  “Say football—you’ll win some points with the locals.” I winked. “And let me guess: You’re going to see Paris Saint-Germaine.”

  “Yep. Your ex has hooked us up with tickets in a box. Vincent is bringing some investors he’s trying to get on board for his next film. Turns out the French are crazy for soccer. Who knew?”

  “Football.” And I knew. I’d spent an entire year on the sidelines of Dimitri’s games. He’d called me his lucky charm and when he scored he would look to me, bite his goddamn lip, and make me think I’d had something to do with it. Once, I’d missed a match because I was on a trip with my grandmother, and the following week a random fan had scolded me for it at the next game. As if I had anything to do with how Dimitri played.

  The heavily tattooed waiter with his perfectly groomed dark beard handed me the check and offered to get us anything else. We said we were all set, and Casey’s eyes followed him as he walked away.

  “That grizzly bear can rub against my tree whenever he wants. No need for dessert; I’m full just thinking about him.”

  I rolled my eyes and grabbed my purse. “Where are you staying in Paris, anyway?”

  “I’m Airbnb-ing down the street from Vincent’s apartment.”

  “Ugh. I’m so jealous. I love Paris.”

  The waiter was back, and I couldn’t help but giggle at the all-but-drool cornering in Casey’s upturned lips.

  I parked my little Fiat next to Jake’s massive Jeep at the studio in the Valley. We’d sunk into a lovely rhythm as fall wrapped us in its cooler arms. Not that it was cold. Los Angeles offered hazy and seventy-five-degree weather almost every day.

  With an easy tug, I walked through the glass front door and trekked my now-familiar path back to The Spades. With a smile—because I knew I was wearing the green dress that I knew drove Jake crazy—I pushed through to … yelling.

  The guitarist, John, was in Jake’s face with a finger pointed up at him. “You always take his side! Think a little more about what’s right for the song and less about being Shane’s bitch.”

  Jake glanced to me, then narrowed his eyes down at John. In a calmer tone than John’s, he said, “I’m nobody’s bitch.”

  I exchanged a shocked look with Sam, who sat on the black leather couch, before he shook his head and rubbe
d his bald scalp, hiding behind his palm.

  “You’re totally her bitch.” Shane laughed and pointed his ring-clad thumb at me. “But who can blame you? Jesus Christ—looking good, Louana.” The snake winked, and his lip puckered. Gross.

  John snickered. He and Shane had obviously found Jake’s weakness, and both let their satisfaction be known with matching smirks.

  “Leave her out of it.” Sam pursed his lips. It was nice for him to come to my rescue. But it backfired.

  “Oh, that’s just fucking typical. Sam licks Riley’s ass, and Riley licks Murphy’s. I’m outta here.” John threw up his arms, shot me a look of disgust—what the hell had I done?—and stormed out.

  I let out a slow breath as Jake stalked over to Shane.

  “That’s the fucking thanks I get? I honestly thought you were right about the guitar part. And you hit on my fucking girlfriend. Fuck you.” Jake turned to me and pointed to the door.

  “No one is hitting on your precious girlfriend,” Shane mocked from over his shoulder. But with Jake’s back to him, Shane’s tongue gave a quick lick to his top lip before his mouth closed and his chin jutted quickly in my direction.

  My hand was in Jake’s in a tight clasp before I could react, and he pulled me out the door with a frustrated grumble that I’d thought only I could elicit.

  When we were out the door, he dropped my hand and let out a loud groan.

  “Are you okay?” I followed him as he stomped to his Jeep, digging in his pocket on the way.

  “They’re fucking idiots. Sorry to make you drive out here. Let’s go home.” The lights of his Jeep flashed as he’d pressed on the fob.

  “Whoa. Just…” I raised my hands in surrender. “Let’s just take a second here.”

  His getting pissed hadn’t happened for a while, and I didn’t want him road-raging his way back to Hollywood.

  Jake rubbed the back of his neck, and his eyes traveled the length of me. A small, lopsided smile appeared on his scruffy face. “Did you wear that dress for me?”

  I stepped closer, and he looped a finger into the cloth belt around my waist. If he wanted a distraction, he would find no objections from me. “I’d like to un-wear this dress for you.”

  Jake pulled me in, and his hand moved from my stomach to my ass, where he took a squeeze. His lips brushed mine and I put my forehead on his chin.

  “Hi. It’s nice to see you,” I whispered.

  “Sorry. I’m an ass. How was your day?” He blinked and kissed me again. The greedy bastard also moved both his hands to my butt, where he rubbed. “Black lace?”

  “Yep.” He really had ESP when it came to my underwear. “And my day was good. My mom booked her tickets for my birthday. Come on; I’ll drive you home. Sam can pick you up in the morning.”

  On the last night of my mom’s visit, we went out to the best French restaurant I could find. Jake had even gone out and bought a sports jacket. He didn’t know how to tie a tie, so he didn’t buy one, but he looked sleek.

  We’d thought about including Fern, but the intimacy of its being just my mom was more poignant. It marked a successful weekend—not that I’d thought my mom would have any problems liking Jake. Apple, tree, bad boys.

  In the quiet restaurant, Jake pulled out my mom’s chair while I waited, and she smiled up at him. There was even a glimmer in her eyes. After all the drama she’d lived in the Midwest, on the other side of the phone from me, seeing her like Jake was important.

  He kissed me on the cheek as I scooted into the table. After he sat, we were quickly met with menus.

  “Ooo, maman, they have cassoulet.” Decision made, I put my menu down.

  “What do you suggest, Charlotte?” Jake smiled at my mom.

  I loved that he asked her, because I knew she would get him to try something new, and he would discover he liked it. He was the most enthusiastic eater and had the least picky palate I’d ever met.

  “You ever have escargots?” A wry smile brushed my mother’s lovely face.

  “Nope.”

  “Shame, shame, baby girl. Why haven’t you made those for him?” She winked at me.

  “What about frog legs?” she asked Jake.

  His hand went to his buttoned-up collar. He was used to wrinkled shirts that were open half way. I almost laughed. She was testing him.

  Jake’s mouth twitched a bit, and he said, “After that amazing dinner you made us last night, I’ll eat anything you recommend.”

  They were a two-way street of stomach love. She loved cooking more than I did and he loved eating. My mom ordered the wine, because … duh. And we folded our leather-bound menus and handed them back to the black-tied waiter.

  I was settled in my warm blanket of bliss, listening to the two of them discuss classic rock—when it was ripped off, and ice ran through my veins. Vincent Renier had not only walked into the restaurant, he was headed straight for our table.

  Fuck me.

  Getting ahead of the attack was vital, I leaned over to Jake. “Your best behavior.”

  The side of his face wrinkled up until his eyes traveled to and landed on my client.

  I stood to greet Vincent, whose gaze immediately shot to my exposed legs. Fucker. And there was no need to check to see if Jake caught it; I could feel the heat pouring out of his ears like he was a cartoon character.

  Vincent greeted us in French, and I introduced him, in English, to my boyfriend, Jake Riley, and my mother, Charlotte Higgins.

  To my delight, Vincent made the horrible mistake of swooning to my mom about my grandmother. Charlotte had lived in her mother’s shadow for decades; it was the entire reason she’d left France and traded her last name. Plus, she hated all the posh crap that went along with the snobby elite in her home country. Zero points to Vincent.

  But the director of drama had even more ammunition. This time, in obvious and purposeful English, he said to my mother, “I think we have a mutual friend.”

  “Who would that be?” The unimpressed tone in my mom’s voice had me fighting a smile.

  “Dimitri Le Clerc. In fact, I just saw him play in Paris.” Vincent offered a tight smile to Jake, as if he was daring him.

  Jake propped his elbow on the table and smoothed the scruff around his mouth. And bless every inch of him—which I would absolutely do later with my mouth—he said nothing.

  My mom’s eyes darted from me to Jake and back to Vincent. “I’m so happy to hear he’s playing again. I’d heard he was injured.”

  Vincent interlaced his fingers and rubbed his thumb into the opposite palm. “Beh … I’m not sure you can call it playing. He missed all his shots on goal.”

  No need to confirm the grin on Jake’s face. I was sure finding out that Dimitri wasn’t playing well was a gift he’d never expected to land in his lap. But Vincent shot me a squinted side-eye that left me at a loss.

  By the grace of all things good, the sommelier arrived with our wine. And my mom, who was proving to be the real rock star at the table, said to Vincent, “It was nice to meet you. We’d invite you to join us, but it’s my last night with my daughter. I’m already sharing her with one man; I couldn’t possibly bear two. I’m sure you understand.”

  Shout-out to manners—I’d never be mad at them again. Vincent left us without offering so much as a handshake to Jake, the wine was tasted and served, and we settled back into our bubble. I reached over for Jake’s hand, brushed the knuckles, and hoped my thank-you was translating through our skin.

  “Quel connard,” my mom said with a small shake of her curly locks.

  Jake peered over at me.

  Out of the side of my mouth, I said, “She called Vincent a jackass.”

  A huge grin grew on Jake’s face. “Charlotte, if I wasn’t madly in love with your daughter, you’d be at the top of my list.” He winked at my mom and I think the rebel in her batted its eyes, because she shimmied in her chair with a tiny giggle. Good God, Jake’s winks were powerful.

  9

  JAKE


  * * *

  I wouldn’t do it for all the drumkits in the world. I would not ruin Louana’s dinner with my steaming inner beast. That Vincent motherfucker had not only checked out her fucking legs, he’d brought up the soccer fuck. Those two must have formed some kind of Fro-mance, and I was sure dropping the ex’s name at our dinner had given the director a twisted sort of pleasure.

  But Louana had handled the horrible situation with her client, she’d been honest about what had happened to her boss, and they’d worked it out. I was proud of her for talking her way through it, so, as much as I wanted to get up and punch the French snob in the face, I wouldn’t do it to her. No way. And certainly not in front of her mom, whom, after the comments on Vincent, I genuinely adored.

  We finished our lovely meal and dropped Charlotte at her hotel, Louana beaming from the passenger side of the car. While she didn’t really resemble her mother physically, there had been one or two things that stood out and highlighted them as family: the legs crossed at the ankles, the cute little giggle, the perfect posture and quiet calm. Charlotte’s influence over her daughter presented itself in the details.

  I held Louana’s hand through the courtyard outside our apartment and propped the door open for the beautiful woman who made me complete.

  “I have one more present for you.” I tossed my key fob into the little bowl on top of the piano.

  She cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t need anything else. Sharing my mom with you was better than I imagined.” Her arms draped around my neck and she stood on her tiptoes to peck my cheek.

  “On the couch.” I hoped my nerves would react the same way they did when I got up on stage in front of thousands of screaming fans and calm the second the music started. But as I sat down at the piano, they still bubbled inside me. Because this was different. There was one ticket to this show. And the owner of that ticket meant more to me than any fan, any song.

  My breath stuttered out of my mouth as my fingertips brushed the keys. I could do this. It wasn’t the instrument I was worried about; it was my voice. And the fact that I was probably going to butcher her mother tongue. At least I’d saved my embarrassment until we were alone. Not that I would have shared this moment with anyone else.