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“Ah, so you admit that you have an ego.”
“A small one.” I pinch two fingers together.
“Yes, yes, I know. I’m trying to change that. No one likes altruism, Winnifred. It’s such a boring trait.”
“Is that why you gave me a billboard? To prove to me that I’m vain?” I press.
He steps forward, his mouth a breath away from my ear. The back of my neck blossoms in goose bumps, and my breathing becomes labored.
“Maybe I simply needed a bait to lure you into the conversation you walked away from that night at the Pierre. Have I succeeded?”
Of course he has. I am here, after all. Drawn to him like a moth to a flame. Praying like a desperate schoolgirl for his lips to graze the shell of my ear.
I jerk back from him, realizing that he has me exactly where he wanted me. “What do you wanna talk about?”
“We only have one mutual interest, and it keeps both of us awake at night.”
Grace and Paul.
“Actually, judging by tonight, what keeps you awake at night has nothing to do with your late fiancée.” I glance coolly behind him, looking for Gwen.
“Jealous?” He lifts an inquisitive eyebrow.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I splutter.
“I should be so lucky. A young, beautiful admirer. Fresh out of the Bible Belt too.”
I laugh incredulously, pushing him away. “I’m not the dumb farm girl you think I am.”
“Oh, yes. You’re very observant. I’m in awe of your watchful skills.” He casually glances around him, which makes me do the same. And that’s when I realize . . .
“Wait, where’s Gwen?”
His white teeth gleam. He is enjoying this exchange too much. “Who, now?”
“Your date!” I’m about to kill him. I’m sure of it.
He looks around, as if just realizing she is gone. “She must’ve left. Beats me as to why.”
“You gave me more attention than you did her,” I say hotly, knowing I’m falling right into his trap. “Which is incredibly rude.”
“Rude?” He looks genuinely surprised. “Grace used to love it when I brought dates over and neglected them in favor of her halfway through the night. Dare I say, it was her favorite pastime.”
Grace sounds like a real piece of work. “I take it this was a reoccurrence?”
He shrugs, tucking his hands into his front pockets. “She liked to be reminded of her loveliness often, and preferably by disparaging others.”
“Well, some girls are confident enough in their skin not to bring down others. Your relationship was seriously messed up.”
“While I second your statement, I think we can both agree Paul wasn’t the stuff dreamboats are made of either.”
I open my mouth to argue with him, to defend Paul, but the right words escape me. He is right. Paul cheated on me with Grace. He has the receipts to prove it. It is foolish to pretend our relationship was bulletproof.
To the expression on my face, he grins. “What, no comeback? Very good, Winnifred. I’m seeing progress, and I like it.”
“So?” I ask dispassionately. “Where are you going with this conversation?”
“Since you’re obviously as uninterested in this place as I am, I thought we could head over to Grace’s apartment and go through her things. See if you recognize anything of Paul’s.”
A smart woman would say no to this offer. We’ve already established Paul and Grace bumped uglies behind our backs, and often. What’s the point in poking this open, raw wound?
My suspicion is that Arsène and I keep doing it because it makes us feel something; otherwise we’re completely numb. Pain is a great substitute for pleasure. Both are radical feelings, even if one is positive and the other negative. And maybe, just maybe, Arsène is as lonely as I am, and this project reminds him that once upon a time, he belonged to someone.
Isn’t that what we crave, at the end of the day? To belong. To a family, to parents, to partners, to communities?
“Well?” he asks. “What do you say?”
No.
I have an early morning tomorrow.
All we’re doing is hurting ourselves.
This is going to bite us in the ass.
In the end, though, I’m just like Arsène. Addicted to the feeling that comes with the pain.
“Call a taxi.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
WINNIE
Grace’s apartment is luxurious and chic. Everything is in either black or white. There are expensive throws everywhere and vases that were once stuffed with fresh flowers, I’m sure. I give myself a tour of the place while Arsène turns on the lights.
“And you keep paying rent on this place?” I glance around at the glass fireplace and custom-made curtains. Surely, it’s $15K a month minimum, before utility bills.
“Yeah,” he answers shortly, ambling to the kitchen and getting both of us bottles of water. It soothes me to see her apartment is still equipped with refreshments. It makes my Paul mania seem almost normal. Arsène is keeping this place livable too.
“Why?” I turn around to face him. “You always lecture everyone about smart investments. How’s paying rent for your dead fiancée’s old apartment a logical decision?”
