“Only if someone gets hurt.”
“Someone always gets hurt, Hayes.”
He said nothing as he slid his fingers in between mine, squeezing my hand. The intimacy of the gesture threw me. I had not helda man’s hand since Daniel’s, and Hayes’s felt foreign. Large, smooth, capable; the coolness of an unexpected ring.
I shifted in my skirt, legs sticking to the leather cushion. I needed to get out of there, and yet I did not want it to end.
We finished our tea like that: fingers entwined on the banquette away from prying eyes, and the knowledge that we’d made a promise.
When the bill was paid, the maître d’ returned to our table. He asked if everything had been to our satisfaction. And then, very matter-of-factly, he said, “Mr. Campbell, I regret to inform you, it appears someone got wind of your whereabouts and there are a few paparazzi awaiting you out front. I apologize. They’re not on the premises, but they are just across the street from the valet. I wanted to give you fair warning, should you want to stagger your exit.”
Hayes took a moment to digest the information and then nodded. “Thank you, Pierre.”
“What does that mean exactly?” I asked once he’d departed.
“It means that unless you want to be on all the blogs tomorrow, you should probably leave before me.”
“Oh. Okay. So now?” I reached across the banquette for my Saint Laurent tote.
He laughed, pulling me back into him. “You don’t have to go this very moment.”
“I should, though.”
“Here’s the deal,” he said. “If wedon’twalk out of the restaurant together, we risk looking guilty. But if we walk to the valet together and the cameras catch us, we risk looking guilty to a much larger audience.”
“So it’s a game?”
“It’s a game.” He slipped on his sunglasses. “You ready?”
I began to laugh. “Remind me how I ended up here again.”
“Solène”—he smiled—“it’s just lunch.”
If I’d managed to forget Hayes was a celebrity during our near two-hour meal, there was no ignoring it when we walked across the terrace of the Hotel Bel-Air restaurant. All six feet two inchesof him, in black jeans and black boots. Heads turned and eyes widened and patrons gestured among themselves, and he seemed not to notice. He’d grown accustomed to tuning them out.
In the walkway, just before we reached the bridge, he stopped me, his hand on my waist, familiar. “You go on, and I’ll pop into the lounge for a bit.”
That seemed wise. Not that I couldn’t sell Hayes being a potential buyer to inquiring friends. I just wasn’t sure I could sell it to Isabelle.
He seemed to realize how close he was standing and stepped back, his fingers loosening slowly.
“Thank you,” he said, “for coming today. This was perfect.”
“It was.” We stood there for a moment, at arm’s distance, feeling the undeniable pull.
“Isabelle’s mum,” he mouthed, smiling. I wasn’t sure if he was relishing the moniker or the thought.
“Hayes Campbell.”
“I can’t kiss you here.” His voice was low, raspy.
“Who said I wanted you to?”
He laughed at that. “Iwant to.”
“Well, that’s problematic, then, isn’t it? You should have chosen a more secluded place.”
Hayes cocked his head, his jaw falling slack. “Excuse me?”
