My cheeks heat up. “Thank you. And thanks for paying for it.”
“It was a pleasure.”
I point my clutch at his chest, “Remind me why you were hiding this version of yourself?”
“It was my childhood dream to have my ownPretty Womanmoment,” he jokes.
We both laugh.
“OK,” Antoine says. “We should get rid of the evidence.”
For a second, I’m not sure what he means, until he gestures to the backpack in my hands, and the shopping bag in his.
“Can’t we take them to the gala?”
“Afraid not.”
“All right,” I mutter. “Give me a sec.”
I open my backpack to make sure I haven’t left anything valuable in it. Let’s see—my T-shirt, jeans, sneakers, cap, cheapsunglasses… As I rummage through my stuff, I’m hyperaware of Antoine’s proximity. He looks too good, smells too good. This new and improved edition of him changes something between us. It makes me giddy with pride as I anticipate walking on his arm. But it also stirs up my insecurity.
I close the backpack.
He reaches for it. “Here, let me.”
I hand it over. Without hesitation, he tosses it into a nearby trash can. When the shopping bag containing his own discarded clothes follows down the same path, he brushes his hands together like he’d touched something dirty.Good riddanceis what his deeply satisfied expression screams as he turns to me.
“No second thoughts, huh?” I tease. “I thought you loved those torn jeans.”
He dodges my observation by adding, “We’ll buy some casual clothes tomorrow morning, before we fly back to Chengdu.”
“Sure,” I mutter.
Just in case it wasn’t clear, money is not an issue for Monsieur Bellay.
He offers his arm. “Shall we?”
I slip my hand through it, as we head to the taxi stand. In the dusk, city lights shimmer around us, and I catch myself overcome by the same fuzzy feeling I had when Antoine and I danced salsa in Sardinia, or when we strolled through the winding streets of Moulindor, or when we cooked together in Paris… It scares me. But it’s also exhilarating.
Near the taxi stand, we cross paths with a group of four men. They are some big dudes, their muscles practically bursting out of their business jackets. Three of them are white Caucasian and one looks more Middle Eastern. None are Chinese. They glance at Antoine like they know him. He gives them the tiniest of nods.
What was that?
“Did you just acknowledge those guys?” I ask as he opens the cab door for me.
“What guys?” he inquires, all innocent.
“The four bouncer types.”
“Please call them SWAT types,” he corrects me. “And no, I didn’t greet them. I’ve never seen them before in my life.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
LAURA
The hall of Shanghai Treasure is pure opulence. Crystal chandeliers dangle from the ceiling. Their light refracts across polished marble floors. Tall, gilded mirrors line the walls, creating the illusion of an infinite, festive space. Each table is decorated with beautiful floral arrangements. Refined place settings gleam with silver and gold. It’s a room designed to make you feel special.
Unsuccessfully in my case, because I feel like a fraud, like I don’t belong here. But that’s my problem, not the room.
