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His shoulders loosened. “How are you?” he asked pleasantly.
My mind scrambled to catch up with his shift in mood. I caught him inspecting the spot where the bruises had been. “Fine,” I replied nonchalantly and crossed my arms to cover my elbow.
He tapped his foot and peered down at me as we waited for the elevator.
“Er, how are you?” I asked.
“Better,” he said with a beatific smile, taking a hammer to my resolve.
~
He led me over to a classic black Porsche 911 so shiny and spotless, that it must have taken a deal with the devil to keep it that way, especially in this city. He opened the passenger door, and I blinked my eyes in disbelief.
“This is your car?”
“Yes. Get in,” he urged, and I crouched down to slide onto the leather seat.
I eyed the interior quickly as he rounded the car and spotted, as I had suspected, the signature Turbo logo.
“I love this car,” I said once he was behind the wheel.
“Are you a car girl?”
“Not really, but my dad always had a different sports car when I was growing up. I don’t really care, so long as it goes fast.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Hungry?” he asked.
“Starved,” I replied honestly. He looked at me curiously. “Oh, I eat. You’re probably not used to that,” I murmured.
He laughed. “You must work hard to keep such a great figure,” he commented, pulling out of the spot and into traffic.
“Um, sure,” I said under my breath, reddening. Aside from occasional run, I never worked out. “Did you have a nice time on Saturday night?”
“Moderate,” he replied. “I went to support Arnaud, but you were quite the distraction. I’d have rather been at your table.”
“No doubt, considering we were a table of five women.”
“I meant that I’d have preferred your company.”
I scoffed. “My company? I’d say you had your hands full with - what was it? Mar-eee-ah? She must have been the most beautiful woman in the room,” I said casually, feigning interest in something outside.
He made a noise, and my statement hung in the air. “Do I sense a hint of jealousy, Olivia?” He continued when I didn’t respond. “I am dating.”
“You can call me Liv, you know. Everyone else does.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
I gaped and the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. That always worked on Bill; he was easily sidetracked. “All right,” I relented. “So you’re dating.”
“Is it something you wish to discuss?” he asked.
My chest tightened as I took in his profile, letting my gaze explore his face as he concentrated ahead. The only word I could think to describe his nose was strong. It had a slight bump that ended in an acute tip. Though smoothly shaven, I could see a shadow forming. His long lashes blinked and bushy eyebrows furrowed as he focused on the road, deepening the crow’s feet around his eyes. Defined muscles strained against a crisp shirt as he shifted gears and my hand twitched, desiring to reach over and feel them.
It was something I desperately wished to discuss. How could I tell him all the things that had crossed my mind lately, all the emotions that tore at my insides? I couldn’t. Not how I’d begun to question my marriage, how I sometimes wondered if it would be enough. He looked over at me questioningly.
“No,” I said quietly.
We rode in silence the rest of the way.
~
“Good afternoon, Mr. Dylan.” The hostess’s sleek ponytail, low-cut top and smiling red lips didn’t seem to catch his attention, but I had to admire her effort.
“This place is close to the site so we’re here a lot,” he explained.
“What exactly is the project?”
“It’s a resort hotel on the Chicago River.”
“Dylan,” The French accent boomed from across the restaurant just as we’d sat down. I recognized the approaching man as the one David had introduced to the table Saturday night.
“Arnaud Mallory, this is Olivia Germaine, writer for Chicago M.”
“Yes,” he said, and I shifted uncomfortably under the same stare he’d given me at the restaurant. “I remember.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said a little too loudly, tucking my hair behind my ear.
“Enchanté, mademoiselle,” he replied, holding out his palm and bowing his head.
“Madame, actually,” I corrected, reluctantly allowing him to kiss the back of my hand.
He lifted his bent head and raised his eyebrows, looking between the two of us. “I’m sorry. Madame, then.”
“Are you going back to the office?” David asked.
“Yes.”
“I need you to go and look at those light fixtures we discussed. Today. We can make a final decision when I get back later,” he said, turning his attention back to me and effectively dismissing Arnaud. Inwardly I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Germaine,” David mused once we were alone. “That’s not your husband’s name, is it?”
“How did you know?”
