And she looks amazing tonight. Her red dress suits her perfectly, complimenting her figure and skin tone. She’s chattingwith one of the show’s producers, and her smile illuminates the space better than all the strings of lights combined.
When their conversation ends, she comes up to me. “Are you going to stand there all night?”
“It’s a possibility I’m considering.”
“Because you’re afraid that if you sit down in those jeans, you’ll split them at the seams?”
I smile. “They’re not as uncomfortable as they look. Don’t you like them?”
“On a Kurt Cobain type of guy, totally.” She grins. “But on a hunky beefcake…”
Was that a taunt or a compliment?
She points with her glass. “Oh, look, there’s the couple we saw on the beach! We haven’t met them yet. Shall we talk to them?”
“Let me finish my drink first.”
Laura raises an eyebrow. A fully justified reaction, because nothing prevents me from talking to them with my drink in hand. But the prospect of meeting more people I have nothing in common with, and would rather not know, triggers my inner introvert and makes him say nonsensical things.
Fortunately, Isabelle swoops in. “Antoine! Laura! How’s your evening going? Are you enjoying the Honeymoon’s End party?”
“Very much,” Laura says.
“Have you met all the couples yet?”
“Almost,” Laura answers.
“We’re looking forward to seeing your salsa routine!” Isabelle’s gaze flicks to me. “I hear you two were quite dedicated during practice.”
I nod. “Quite.”
She gives me a tight laugh, then excuses herself to harass another couple. Laura and I trade a look. Hers is amused, mine less so.
As the band shifts to a slower tune, Laura pulls me toward a small group gathered near the bar. Introductions follow—names, hobbies, forced pleasantries. I contribute the bare minimum, all while noticing Laura’s easy rapport with everyone she meets. She’s relaxed and charming, and her warmth genuine.
For no reason, I picture her hosting a garden party at Château de Bellay. She’s radiant, like now. Her gown is less sexy but more elegant. A champagne flute in hand, she circulates, chatting to our upper-crust guests with so much natural, unaffected cordiality that it even rubs off on me.
What the hell?
I push the image out of my head. The idea that Laura could fit into my world is preposterous. Not to mention that there’s no basis for assuming she’s naturally convivial. What I’m observing now is simply Laura still exhilarated by a luxury she’s not used to, surrounded by people like her, and having a jolly good time.
Unlike me.
This noisy, overenthusiastic, live streamed party is starting to feel like it’s closing in on me. Lights reflecting off the pool, bursts of manic laughter, music that’s too loud for my taste—it’s all suddenly suffocating. Laura is in her element, but I need air.
“Be right back,” I whisper to her. “Restroom.” I turn around and weave through the crowd toward the most remote corner of the property, as far away from the cameras and the relentless cheeriness as I can get without technically leaving.
I halt on one of the wooden pathways to gaze at the dark waters of the sea and fill my lungs with the cool, salty air.
Ah. Better.
But as much as I’d like to stay until the party ends, I know I can’t. I begin to make my way back, scanning the crowd for Laura.
It’s her body language that catches my attention first. She’s standing stiffly and sideways, as if preparing to walk away. Her arms are crossed over her chest—not in a casual way, but tight, defensive.
Then I spot the guy. Fabian, if memory serves. He’s one of the bridegrooms we met tonight. I can’t see his wife anywhere. He’s leaning toward Laura, too close, his gaze far too lecherous. Even from this distance, I can see it’s fixed on her cleavage.
Gritting my teeth, I push through the crowd.
