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“Probably.”
Just my luck, Olivier comes down with a coat on just as I’m passing off half the calzone to my trainee.
He glares viciously at me. “Who’s this, Jack?”
“Matthew, this is Mr. Arnaud. 1204. Matthew’s training as a fill-in.”
“Nice of you to share your dinner with him.”
“My boyfriend’s very generous. He always orders more than I can eat. I think he’s trying to fatten me up so no other men will look at me.”
“Smart man,” Olivier says, but some of the bite leaves his tone. He acknowledges Matthew. “Nice to meet you. Welcome to The Eastmoor.”
“Thank you, sir.” Matthew rises to open the door. “Happy to be here. Have a lovely evening.”
I immediately pull out my phone and text Olivier.
Where are you going??
Olivier
For a walk.
Everything ok?
Olivier
Not really. I’ll talk to you later.
Love you.
His last message rocks me back in my seat. Totally unsolicited. Not said in the throes of hot, passionate, shower sex. Simple. Unmistakable. I gulp past the rising lump in my throat and text him back.
I love you too.
Matthew sits back down and digs into his hunk of calzone. “Why’d he call you Jack?”
“He’s an asshole. Better to just steer clear of him.”
Midnight comes and goes with no sign of Olivier. Since this was my mental deadline for wanting him back, I text him again.
Where are you?
It takes a nauseatingly long eight minutes before he replies.
It’s a selfie with Jersey in the background, meaning he’s all the way down by the Hudson. In the photo, his face is obscured by the puff of steamed breath coming out of his mouth. I text him again.
Get a ride and come home.
Olivier
Make me.
Asshole.
I set my phone back down, and the elevator dings. Matthew stands to greet whoever it is, but Elodie barrels right past him, bruised face, black eye and all, and leans over my desk. “I need to talk to you.”
I glance over at Matthew and give Elodie a what the fuck look.
