He leaves before the moment can turn into an invitation, and I watch him walk away until the corner takes him. The problem is not that Damien Holt is jealous. The problem is that some foolish, hidden part of me likes knowing it.
I go inside with Ethan unanswered in my phone and Damien still on my mind.
Chapter Twenty
Serena
Ethan chooses a bistro near the Palais-Royal because he apparently looked it up. I know that before I step inside. It’s in the way he waits near the door with flowers in one hand and his other tucked into the pocket of his tailored trousers, clean-shaven, handsome, composed, wearing remorse as well as he wears a suit.
The bistro is tasteful without being risky. Cream walls. Brass rails. Burgundy leather banquettes. A menu that signals research but not obsession. It is the exact kind of place a man chooses when he wants to show effort without placing himself in danger of being uncomfortable.
He smiles when he sees me. There was a time that his smile could rearrange me. Tonight, it only tells me what I used to know.
“Serena,” he says, stepping forward.
“Ethan,” I say.
He leans in like he might kiss my cheek, then thinks better of it. That small adjustment tells me he has rehearsed this, too. The restraint. The humility. The careful correction of old habits. He lifts the flowers slightly, and the arrangement is beautiful, of course. Pale roses, white ranunculus, a little greenery, nottoo romantic, not too apologetic. Expensive enough to matter, tasteful enough not to embarrass either of us.
“I brought these to your hotel earlier,” he says.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d want to carry them around.”
“I put them in water,” I say.
“Good,” he says, and the relief in his face is either real or very well placed.
The host leads us to a table near the window. Ethan waits for me to sit before he takes the chair across from me, and I watch him do every right thing with a clarity that feels almost cruel. He orders the wine politely after asking whether I have a preference. He chooses well. He does not mention the photograph, the woman, the silence afterward, the weeks of texts I did not answer, not immediately. He lets the first few minutes behave themselves.
I let them. There is no reason to be unkind simply because I’m finished.
He talks about London first, then the fund, then a hotel project in Mayfair that he makes sound less tedious than it probably is. His voice is familiar in the way old songs are familiar when they come on somewhere public. I know the turns. I know the pauses. I know where the charm settles, where the seriousness enters, where his hand moves toward his glass when he wants to look thoughtful. The waiter pours the wine, and Ethan waits until he leaves before looking at me fully.
“I’ve missed you,” he says.
The words are soft, clean, perfectly timed.
I believe that he means them.
That is not the same as wanting to go back.
“I know,” I say.
His jaw tightens slightly, but he nods as though he expected less.
“I deserved that.”
“You deserved worse.”
“I did,” he says.
The entrée arrives and gives both of us a moment to look down. Mine is delicate and forgettable. His is better, which I notice with professional irritation and do not say. Ethan waits until I take a bite before he speaks again.
“I made a mess of us,” he says.
I set my fork down. “Yes.”
“I was stupid. Selfish. Careless.”
