Red Hot Rebel - Olivia Hayle Page 0,26

pleasure,” he tells me, “to meet a friend of Rhys’s.”

“Likewise.”

Baptiste looks at Rhys with a wide smile. “Traveling the world with a beautiful model, hein? Not a bad job to have.”

Rhys reaches for the menu. “I’ve had worse.”

“When Rhys told me you were joining us, I had a look at your social media,” Baptiste tells me. “The amount of followers, whew. It must be challenging?”

“It can be, yes. I mean, it is. I’m still not entirely comfortable with it, especially not considering so many of my followers are young.”

Young, an impressionable. I know exactly what striving for unrealistic beauty standards feels like, and the idea that I might be contributing that myself…

“Fascinating,” Baptiste says. “And using that kind of thing for marketing, too? You must be swamped with people wanting you to, ah, promote things?”

“Oh yes, I get a ton of messages. I turn it all down, though.” I order the cheapest thing on the menu, but it’s still eighty-seven euros. Live now, think about money later, I tell myself. The waitress is more than attentive to us, going so far as to bring us an extra bread basket.

It feels like unusually good service in a city Rhys had just earlier derided for its lack of hospitality.

“Ah, yes,” Baptiste says at some point, waving his hand at Rhys. “I’m glad you’re here, Ivy. Perhaps you can settle a dispute between us.”

“Not this again,” Rhys groans.

“Yes, yes. You see, my American cousin believes that Paris is overrated. Over-hyped. I keep telling him it isn’t—no Parisian could ever say that. Rhys disagrees. You, our beautiful guest, will have to decide.”

I take a sip of my wine. “I’ve only been here for a day.”

“Oh, but that’s even better! You’ve seen it all with virgin eyes.”

My wine gets stuck in my throat and I have to cough once, twice. Rhys puts a hand on my back. “You okay?”

“Yes, thanks, I’m fine.”

Baptiste looks between the two of us. “Or perhaps you’re not impartial, ah? You’re biased?”

“Baptiste.” There’s a warning in Rhys’s voice.

“It’s just a question.” His smile turns teasing, raising a glass to me. “We’re becoming friends, aren’t we, Ivy?”

“Sure.” I raise my glass to his. “And I’m not biased.”

“You’re not?”

“No.”

He glances toward Rhys, smile widening. “Good to know.”

The dinner is nearly over when I finally start picking up on the reason I’m supposed to be a buffer. Baptiste’s voice turns casual, nonchalant. “And of the family, Rhys? What’s become of my other cousins?”

Rhys pushes his glass of wine away. “They’re good.”

“Henry?”

“He’s doing well. Busy, but, when is he not?”

“That’s Henry,” Baptiste agrees. “I remember. Lily?”

An entirely private smile plays on Rhys’s lips. “She’s doing well. Her son is almost a year, now.”

Baptiste sighs. “Little Lily, a mother.”

“Mhm, I know. It was a mindfuck for me, too.”

“She’s your sister?” I ask, and they both nod. I’m getting to hear about his family. Piece after piece, more of the real Rhys Marchand is falling in line.

“Parker is good too,” Rhys says. How many siblings does he have? “He’s thinking of buying the yacht club, actually.”

“In Paradise?”

“Yeah.”

Parker Marchand, the one sibling that hadn’t come up when I’d googled his name. My curiosity feels like a burning thing inside me, one that I can’t really contain. I force it down with another sip of wine.

“And my aunt and uncle?” Baptiste asks, draping his arm around the back of the chair next to him. “They never come to France anymore.”

Rhys gives a sharp nod. “It’s rare.”

“My mother misses Eloise.” Baptiste gives an elegant shrug, reaching for his glass. “It’s a shame, really, that siblings should drift apart like that.”

“It really is,” Rhys agrees, reaching for his own.

There is so much subtext here, and I don’t know any of it.

“But,” Rhys drawls, “the good thing is that flights go both ways.”

Baptiste’s lips quirk, but not with any real humor. “So they do, cousin. So they do.”

Both of them pause to drink wine.

I stare at one of the waitresses moving between the tables and try to think of a way to undercut this tension, to turn this thing around. I come up empty.

“D’accord,” Baptiste murmurs. And then, in a voice that makes it clear we’re turning the page, he asks me, “and what are your plans for your one night in Paris?”

“My plans?”

“Yes. Where is Rhys taking you after this?”

I glance toward Rhys, but his face is the same inscrutable mask he always wears. “I think we’re going back to the hotel?” I ask him.

“Of course you’re not.” Baptiste waves for