“Ahh, book a meeting with me if you’d like to talk business,” I say.
Delphine chuckles.
“Feisty as fuck. I love it.” He winks.
I playfully roll my eyes and sip the champagne. It’s cold and sweet, and it mixes dangerously with the tequila already swimming in my blood.
Delphine spots someone across the room and squeezes my arm. “I’ll be right back.”
“Not too long,” I whisper before she slips away.
Marcelo steps closer and asks questions about my travels and how I’m enjoying Montclaire. He talks about the history and living a legendary life. I actually engage in conversation with him instead of planning my escape.
“You should let me show you the coastline tomorrow,” he says while refilling my glass from a bottle that appeared in his hand. “The cliffs at sunset are breathtaking.”
I almost say yes when I remember what tomorrow is—Saturday. “Actually, I have plans.”
“Whoever it is, extremely lucky.”
I think about that damn chessboard. “I think so too.”
He laughs, and it earns me glances from several ladies who are jealous that he’s giving me this much attention. “I like you. Most women giggle when I flirt with them. You’re different.”
“Ah, the classicyou’re not like other girlsline. Love that for me.” I tilt my head. “What other moves do you have?”
“That’s what I’m talking about.” He leans into my space. “You say whatever’s on your mind like you’re immune.”
“Because I am.”
“Wow.” He grins. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a fuckboy slayer before.”
Laughter bursts out of me, and my voice echoes against the walls. The champagne makes everything feel loose and sparkly, and his attention is flattering even if I have no real interest beyond this conversation.
“That’s a new one for me.”
His fingers brush my elbow, and I lean in closer to listen. I glance past his shoulder and freeze when I see Louis.
He’s leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, wearing a navy suit with the collar unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His messy brown hair is pushed back from his face, and a few pieces have fallen forward. The warmth from the overhead light catches the scruff lining his jaw.
The man is six-three, and with his lean muscle, he’s built like someone who plays polo on the weekends. His blue eyes scan the room with the kind of casual disinterest that only royalty can pull off while still making every woman in a fifty-foot radius aware of exactly where he’s standing.
I was told he was away on official business, but apparently, he’s back.
That thought shouldn’t excite me, but it does.
A second later, our eyes lock, and the room around us disappears.
Louis excuses himself from the blonde who was in mid-conversation and moves through the crowd, toward me, like I summoned him. People step out of his way without being askedbecause he’s the crown prince. His gaze never leaves mine as he closes the distance between us.
When he’s close, all the air in the room evaporates.
“Addison,” he says, and it sounds like he’s speaking in cursive. “What a fucking surprise.”
6
LOUIS
Addison Cross is in Montclaire.
