smile could best be described as enigmatic. ‘But our table is here.’
Of course we’d be front and centre. The ball is named after his family, after all.
‘One thing.’ I find myself glancing down to where he covers my hand with his own, my spidey senses instantly tingling at his tone. ‘I probably should’ve told you earlier, but Amélie will be here.’
‘You did say. She helped your mom with the planning, right?’
It’s not like she’s the ex that’s been invited to our wedding. Only a petty bitch would demand “it’s me or her” and not only am I not petty, I’m also pretty certain I’d be the one on the bus home if I did pull this stunt, given his mother’s lukewarm reception to meeting me in Remy’s office.
‘But what I didn’t say is that she’ll be seated at the same table as my mother. The same table we are seated.’
‘Oh, boy.’ My laughter is hard, his fingers tightening. ‘Were you banking on me not noticing the gazelle in the room?’
‘What do gazelles have to do with anything?’
‘It really doesn’t matter.’
If you’ll let me explain—’
‘But what does matter is that you really are a piece of work.’ I nail a smile to my face as I begin to scan the space for an exit, other than the one behind me. I’m not leaving. At least, not yet. But this is something that requires a discussion in private. Somewhere without an audience that run into the hundreds.
‘Do you remember when I said that I would never set out to hurt you intentionally?’
‘Oh, so this was an accident? Right.’
‘This is not my doing,’ he replies, turning us in the direction of a side door and into another room. No, not a room; more a narrow hallway, staff to-ing and fro-ing, turning their bodies sideways as they pass, barely sparing us a second glance.
I’m pleased, at least, he had the same opinion about privacy.
My hand still secured in the crook of his arm, he leads me left into an alcove very much like the ones I’ve read about in historical romance novels. A seclude alcove. A dark curtain. A window seat. A place to canoodle without anyone seeing.
There will be no canoodling today. But there will be answers.
‘I swear to you I didn’t know.’ He stares down at me, his green eyes angry. ‘Not until Everett sent me a text when he saw Amélie’s name on the seating plan.’
‘And you didn’t think to tell me then?’
‘No, because I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to track down my mother to correct the fuck up.’
‘Yeah, sure.’ I resist the urge to fold my arms across my chest because there’s no way I’m spoiling the fall of this gown. ‘So you went around town looking for your mother?’
‘I asked Paulette to find her, and when I spoke with her this afternoon, she agreed it would be tactless for Amélie to be seated at the same table. She was under the impression the event planner had removed her to another table.’
‘And?’
‘It seems she moved herself back.’
‘Which mean what, exactly?’
‘Apart from the fact the woman has a screw loose, I’m not sure. Unless you want to cause a scene.’
Which, I’m sure, would go down so well for me. ‘You should’ve told me, Remy.’ Yet another incidence of his high-handedness
‘And give you a chance not to come?’ he retorts.
‘And that would be my decision to make, not yours. You get that, right?’
‘Monaco is a small place. You’re going to come across her sometime.’
‘And I would’ve preferred it to not have been tonight,’ I counter, trying very hard to stay calm in the face of this overbearing, asshole side of him.
‘All right, love birds. Break it up.’
At the sound of Everett’s deep . . . ly annoying voice, I find myself growling at the ceiling. ‘I feel like breaking something.’
‘Not me,’ he says, pointing at the earpiece dangling from his ear. ‘I’m working.’ His gaze slides to Remy. ‘And not him, he’s got a speech to give.’
‘I suppose that leaves Amélie, then.’
‘I reckon you could take her. Let me know if you’re gonna throw down and I’ll start offering odds.’
‘Rhett,’ Remy murmurs wearily. ‘Don’t encourage her.’ But he’s smiling, even as he watches me roll my shoulders.
‘All right slugger. Your table awaits.’ Rhett flourishes bow, the kind suited more to a seventeenth century gent.
‘You smell nice,’ I say as I pass. ‘What is that? Chloroform by Tom Ford?’
‘I don’t need to knock them out, Heidi. I have to beat