in such a way no one could mistake my desire to be left alone. Left alone to watch and listen this time.
The screen fills with the image of Remy’s bedroom; the one at the penthouse, which is strange enough, but not quite as strange as the sight of Amélie standing at the end of the bed in nothing but her underwear. A lace balconette bra, her long legs encased in matching black stockings. The tiny triangle of her panties. Probably a thong. A wine glass dangles from her hand, her expression one of extreme self-satisfaction.
The sound of the door pushing open.
Footsteps on the hardwood floor.
Her smile as Remy says her name, his tone low and husky.
His shirt is open, the ladder of his abs ripple in the light as he turns and sets down his own wine glass, his own expression giving nothing away as he watches her cross her legs at the ankle, cocking one hip. She drapes her arm across her body, all long legs and lithe beauty.
The sound cuts out, replaced by the hum of static, though her mouth moves as she lifts the glass to her lips, eyeing him expectantly over the rim.
She nods gracefully, probably in response to something he says.
Come closer.
I’ve missed you.
Take your panties off.
Get on your knees.
Let’s fuck.
My mind swims with a dozen suggestions, a dozen more answers as she struts across the room to him.
Just once more.
Once more to add to the total
I won’t tell.
A whispered word. A pout. She’s sliding her arms around his neck, her fingertips at his nape. Her last glance at the camera is a triumphant one as Remy’s fingers trail up her slender arm.
Then the screen goes black, jumping back to the starting frame.
It’s just seconds long. A minute? Two tops.
How long does it take to ruin?
Ruin a night.
Ruin a relationship.
Ruin an appetite for good liquor.
Or maybe not as I throw back the remains of my margarita.
‘Well, if it isn’t the girl who likes sparkles.’
Despite positioning myself as I have, it seems some people can’t take a hint.
‘I’m sorry?’ Flipping my phone face down, I turn my head over my shoulder, not quite in the mood to give a fuck about appearances.
‘Rose, right? You helped me buy my grandma a gift at the Omega store?’
‘Oh. Right.’ I allow my eyebrows to relax as the man rests his forearm on the marble bar top.
‘You wouldn’t let me buy you a coffee, but maybe you’ll allow me to buy you a drink.’
I glance and my glass and decide why the hell not. After all, I’m not the one who’s been cavorting with my ex in my skivvies. Though maybe cavorting is stretching it some, because despite the protestations of my mystery sender’s second text (that’s my mystery sender also known as Amélie, I’d guess) I don’t believe for one minute that the clip cut where it did in deference to the intimacy between them.
I’m not only saying I don’t believe they were screwing. I’m also saying I believe the whole thing to be a set up. Fake. Total bullshit. But that doesn’t mean I’m not very, very pissed. Because I am.
Je suis trop vénère. I am very angry. Énèrve. Pissed off!
‘I think I would like that. Carson, right?’
Drinks are ordered and I turn from my self-imposed timeout to spend a while with a cute guy who wants to talk to me. And talk we do. He tells me he’s in construction, but I guess he means property development. There aren’t many construction workers who wear fifty thousand-dollar watches and smell like oud wood, as far as I can tell. He tells me he studied architecture at Cornell but that he doesn’t practice, instead taking an interest in the family business.
‘So concierge, huh? You must have some crazy stories.’
‘Crazy stories from crazy rich people?’
He brings his beer—the very unfancy Kronenbourg 1664—to his mouth as he nods.
‘Rich people like you, you mean?’
‘My family is wealthy,’ he says, setting down his glass again. ‘Me? Not so much.’
‘Says the man wearing handmade shoes.’ I tip my head forward, glancing down at his feet. ‘Called it.’
‘These were a gift,’ he protests and, as though uncomfortable, hooks his feet around the legs of the bar stool.
‘Um-hm.’ I slide him a sceptical look.
‘Okay, so I’ve got money,’ he says with a chuckle. ‘It doesn’t make me a bad person, does it?’
‘I don’t know you well enough to decide.’
‘Well, I think we need to do something about that.’ He clinks his glass against mine and I