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At the end of our meal, Angelique announced that drinks and dessert would be served in the living room. Marcel took her hand and they walked out of the dining room.
Gigi stood and bent down to whisper directly into my ear, “FYI, Moreau? I love getting my hair pulled when I’m doing it doggy style. Too bad you’ll never find out.”
With that, she straightened and strode out.
Oh God.
Gigi
“Gigi?”Marcel handed me a tiny glass of Bénédictine. Angelique was already sipping on hers. The first taste was always the best.
“Merci, Marcel,” I said, licking my lips so as not to miss a drop of the delicious liquid. The smooth, sweet liqueur had a wonderful honey aftertaste. Beau’s eyes were locked on me when I gazed back up again. I chose to ignore him and take another drink.
Alcohol was not on the list of healthy things to consume when you were an athlete. Drinking could set me back for days in my training, so I rarely partook. When you were at the Dubois’ residence, after dinner—you partook.
Marcel poured a whiskey for Beau and one for himself.
For some reason, seeing Beau hold that tumbler of amber liquid made me want to sit on his lap and watch him drink it. Then maybe steal a sip.
“Children,” Angelique began speaking, “We have called you both here with a bit of an—ulterior motive”
An ulterior motive? What could she possibly mean?
Angelique continued, “Marcel,” she reached her hand over to squeeze his. Her long, flowing sleeve covering his thigh now as she kept her focus on me, “and I have been speaking with your agent, and—”
Agent? I had to giggle at that one. “Excuse me, Angelique, I don’t have an agent?”
Marcel looked over at me. “You do now, my dear.”
I took another longer sip of my drink. What was he talking about?
“My wife and I thought it imperative for you to have one now, at this point in your career,” he said, setting his glass down.
Color me confused because I had no clue what he was talking about.
“Beau’s agent agreed to take you on,” Angelique said. Uh, wow, this was news. An agent? And not just any agent, Beau Moreau’s agent? “He’s seen your pictures together on social media, and he thinks you two make a lovely couple.”
I shot my gaze directly to Beau. “We aren’t a couple, Angelique. Those photos were—”
“We’d hoped you’d perhaps—find each other. Then we wouldn’t have to resort to such measures. Right, Papa?” She rubbed Marcel’s arm as he nodded. “Clearly that isn’t happening as—naturally as we had originally thought. We need to institute a different approach, if you will.”
Beau cleared his throat. “What are you saying exactly?” I was happy he seemed as clueless as I was right now.
“The photos and the—commercial—were very well received by the future fans of our teams. As you can imagine, starting a new franchise from scratch takes not a small amount of effort. From all of us.” She looked at me, then at Beau.
“If the fans follow, so will their support. And my dears, we will need the support,” she said, staring at Marcel and then at us with her lips pursed.
They had to have dumped a load of money into making and growing one men’s league team and one women’s league team. Of course, the men’s team would have cost infinitely more for everything—including the players’ salaries.
You couldn’t even compare the two.
Still, it would be quite the financial risk.
A knock on the door sounded. “Ah that must be Quentin now,” Marcel said, rising to his feet. Henri opened the French doors and let a handsome, older man—maybe in his mid fifties?—into the living room.
He had dark hair, with some graying on the sides. His suit fit him perfectly and he held an aura about him that all confident people possessed.
We all stood as Marcel made the introductions. “Quentin, welcome, you know Beau, of course and this is—” Marcel began but Quentin cut him off.
