My eyes flick to Antoine, but he’s focused on the screen, oblivious to my smirk. Before I can corner him, my phone vibrates on the coffee table. I glance at the screen.
Mike.
My stomach twists. I don’t pick up. Instead, I let it buzz until it stops. Thirty seconds later, the voicemail alert pings. I glance sideways to see if Antoine noticed, but he’s still engrossed in the show. On screen, we’re finishing our meal. Gigi says something witty, and the camera catches me laughing.
When the episode ends, Antoine stretches out and stands. “Wine?”
“Good idea!”
He heads to the kitchen.
My gaze shifts to my phone. The voicemail stares back at me like it’s daring me to listen. I lift the phone to my ear and press play. Mike’s beautiful timbre is familiar and smooth, but there’s an edge to his voice I don’t recognize… Desperation, maybe?
Laura… You’re probably ignoring me, and I get it. I deserve it.
He pauses, and I can hear him exhale sharply.
But… You only did that show to spite me, didn’t you? Well, congratulations. It worked.
I grip the phone tighter.
On the tour, I’ve been thinking a lot about us. About everything. This break was a mistake. I can see it clearly now. You’re the one for me, Laura! You always were.
His voice wavers, then steadies.
Please, can we meet? Just once. Let me explain. Hear me out. If you don’t want anything to do with me after that, I’ll back off. But I need to see you.
The message ends. I stare at the screen, tempted to replay it so I can make sense of what I just heard. But before I have time to do it, Antoine returns, carrying two glasses of chilled white wine. He hands me one and sits back down, looking relaxed, completely unaware that my world just shook a bit.
“It was a good episode,” he says. “We gave them nothing.”
I manage a faint smile. “I doubt the production thinks it was good.”
Should I tell him Mike called?
My heart is beating too fast. I take a sip of wine that does nothing to steady my nerves.
Antoine’s brow furrows as he looks at me. “Something wrong?”
“Nothing important,” I lie.
He studies me for a moment, then nods. I feel a pang of guilt, but what am I supposed to say? That my ex-boyfriend, the man I was crazy about as recently as two weeks ago, just poured his heart out in a voicemail? That he’s begging for another chance?
Antoine leans back and drinks his wine, looking… content. Meanwhile, my thoughts swirl around my head like snowflakes in a storm. I think about Mike and the unbelievable fact that he did exactly what I’d hoped he’d do. He groveled.
Do I still want him? Or is it too late?
Then my churning thoughts redirect to Antoine. He’s handsome and hot. Charismatic as fuck. And just as detached. Sex with him has been out-of-this-world good. But he’s hiding things from me, and I have no idea if I can trust him.
I lean back on the sofa and fix my gaze on Antoine. “So, tell me, where did you learn to sound like a British lord when you speak English?”
He blinks, caught off guard.
I keep charging, “And how come you were taught ballroom dancing in high school? What school did you attend, exactly?”
“That’s a story for another day,” he says, waving me off.
“You’re deflecting again.” I let out an exasperated sigh. “Antoine, do you realize how little I know about you? I haven’t even seen your apartment, or your tattoo parlor.”
