When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys #2) - Emma Scott Page 0,115

mouth hung open a little in shock. “Are you serious about this, River?”

“Well, yeah, but it doesn’t have to be any time soon. I guess it can wait.”

“Don’t scare me like that,” he said with a rough chuckle, his hand on his chest as if I’d played a prank on him. “If you left… I don’t know what we’d do without you, but it wouldn’t be pretty.”

“Okay, Dad.”

“Leave the mess. I’ll clean it up later.” He rose to his feet, his hand resting for a moment on the back of Mom’s empty chair; then he went out.

I sighed. “It was just an idea.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I lounged back in my chair at the head of the table in the private room at the Epicure restaurant in the Le Bristol Hotel—my current residence—and took in the scene. The long, oval table was littered with the residue of a three-star Michelin dinner. All that remained were plates of half-eaten Tarte Tatin and crème brûlée, cups of coffee, and empty bottles of champagne.

“Wait, wait, silencieux!”

Alexandre Caron, the ringleader of tonight’s party, motioned for silence.

Fifteen of my closest friends—a few of whom I met that day—slowly quieted their laughing, drunk conversations in a handful of different languages. Tonight’s party was comprised of French, Germans, Italians, Britons, my Lebanese shopping BFF, one Russian, an American man I didn’t recognize, and a beautiful Swiss man.

Tonight’s target.

If the artist Basquiat and the actor Michael B. Jordan had had a love child, it would be this guy—perfectly smooth brown skin and a sprig of dreadlocks tied at the top of his head. I’d been making eyes at him all night, but he hadn’t taken me up on my unspoken offer.

Yet.

“Let us raise a toast to our patron saint of the endless party and author extraordinaire…” Alexandre was saying, lifting a glass of champagne. He was sharp like an arrow—slender, with an angular face and a harsh beaked nose. Fortunately, he was straight and unadventurous, otherwise he’d be relegated to the long list of our mutual acquaintances with whom I’d slept with and never spoken to again.

Alexandre grabbed two magazines and lifted them in his other hand. “To Holden—oh, pardonnez-moi, to Gordon Charles. The first writer to have stories published in the New Yorker and the Paris Review at the same time!”

Cheers went up, glasses were raised, and the room toasted to my success. The American—a pale, wiry guy with strawberry blond hair and glasses—met my eye with a look that said he had an agenda.

Too late, my friend. Basquiat B. Jordan is tonight’s dessert.

Or so I hoped. I glanced at the Swiss man and was pleased to finally see a flirty smile dance over his lips. Tonight, I’d get lost in those lips, that mouth, and every other part of him—in my continued quest to erase River Whitmore from my body’s memory.

If only…

None of my old tricks—alcohol and meaningless sex—were working when it came to River. Each night spent in a desperate clutch with someone that wasn’t him only imbedded him deeper into my sense memories. Despite fleeting moments of pleasure, my skin and cells and sinews cried out for him. My fucking heart screamed for him, a never-ending howl that refused to be silenced by alcohol or the sweaty, writhing bodies of strangers.

But I’m no quitter. I reached for more champagne and shot the Swiss man a wink.

Alexandre slammed the magazines down on the table, knocking over a water glass that soaked them both.

“Putain de merde,” he cursed with a grin. “I have ruined your stories, Holden, and now you cannot do your reading.”

“Cheers to that,” I said and gulped down another swallow of champagne.

I’d had zero intention of reading my own work aloud anyway. Like Ms. Watkins had taught us to do in another lifetime, I wrote fictional stories with heavily autobiographical elements, and then slapped them with the pen name, Gordon Charles. Once a story was on paper, it was out of my conscious. Purged. Revisiting it wasn’t on the agenda.

More champagne was ordered, the guests mingled in small groups, and the party showed no signs of stopping though the restaurant had closed hours ago.

“May I join you?”

“If you must.”

The American moved gracefully into the chair beside me. He wore a brown houndstooth suit and an antique Rolex strapped to his wrist. He looked like the world’s wealthiest librarian.

“Elliot Lash,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m an agent for Amanda Boyle Literary. You’ve heard of us?”

He was being cute. Anyone halfway paying attention in the literary world