The manager gave us a quick walkthrough of the penthouse, pointing out features, and I nodded enthusiastically while absorbing absolutely zero of it. On the table in the classically styled sitting room was a bottle of Dom Pérignon chilling in a silver bucket of ice. Beside it waited two champagne flutes, a carafe of juice, and an understated orange bag with the word Hermès printed on it.
“A welcome gift for the madame,” the manager commented before moving on.
The tasteful décor was carried through the bedroom and the bathroom that boasted a marble jetted tub, but the real star of the penthouse was the enormous private terrace outside. It was as big as the entire suite. On one side, a dining table sat beneath a large umbrella, and the other side was staged as an outdoor living space with couches and chairs.
“The casino square and gardens are just below.” The man turned away from the stunning view to face us. “Would you like to lunch on the terrace now? Or should I make arrangements elsewhere if you prefer?”
“Lunch here would be great.” Vance glanced at his watch. “Let’s say twelve thirty.”
The manager gave a single nod. “Excellent. I’ll inform the chef.”
I walked to the railing at the edge of the terrace and shielded my eyes from the bright May sunshine, scanning the landscape that wrapped around us. Palm trees dotted the green areas between buildings and streets that wound their way up the cliffside. Down in the bright blue bay, yachts filled every inch of space of the sprawling marina, and plenty more superyachts were anchored offshore in the distance.
It was otherworldly.
So wealthy and extravagant and picture perfect, none of it seemed real.
I hadn’t realized the manager had left until Vance appeared beside me. “I’m sorry about the sleeping arrangements. I thought it was just going to be me. I’ll take the couch in the sitting room.” He pushed up the sleeves on his sweater and rested a hand on the railing beside me. He offered his statement like I needed more explanation. “Our yacht is too much space for one person, so we only bring it when the whole family comes.”
“Yeah, no worries.” I waved a hand. “We do that with my family’s yacht too.”
He gave me a lopsided smile. “Shower?” His expression froze. “I meant, would you like to take a shower before lunch? I can take mine after yours.”
I thought about making a joke that we could conserve water and take one together, but I was mature and refrained. As long as he didn’t tempt me, I wouldn’t tempt him.
But if he did?
Well, then, game on.
Lunch could have been delicious, but I didn’t notice. It was taking all my remaining energy to keep my eyes open. I’d mistakenly thought the shower would help me power through, but the moment I sat at the table and stopped moving, exhaustion took over.
We had an appointment later this afternoon, he’d said. We’d meet with a stylist who’d be dressing both of us for the week, and shop together at the designer stores that lined the ultrarich streets of Monte Carlo. When I’d expressed reservations about Vance spending that kind of money on me, he shrugged.
“Being my girlfriend comes with perks, and as I mentioned, there’ll be press at these events. Everything you do is unfortunately a reflection of HBHC and my family this week. If you get photographed in a t-shirt and Converses, I’ll never hear the end of it from my father, and I don’t like talking to him unless I have to.”
It was none of my business, but I couldn’t help myself. “Why?”
The shift in Vance’s mood was visible. “It’s . . . complicated.” He let out a breath and leaned back, casting an arm over the back of the empty chair beside him. His posture looked relaxed, but I knew better. Tension rested in his shoulders. “We’ve both made mistakes in the past, and he wants to apologize, but I don’t know if I’m ready.”
“To apologize? Or hear his apology?”
He turned to glance at the scenery, and the wind blew, ruffling his soft brown hair. “Both, I guess.”
There were numerous options for what Macalister Hale’s apology would be about. He’d pushed Vance’s stepmother off a balcony and accidentally killed her. He was dating a woman who was half his age and Vance’s friend. And as Jillian told it, he’d been a terrible father. Cold and controlling and selfish.
Just like Lambert.
But what mistake had Vance made, I wondered, that he had to apologize for?
“We should both try to nap before our meeting with Petra,” he said abruptly. “It’ll help us get over the jet lag faster.”
He lifted a hand and signaled to the butler that we were finished, ending both our lunch and the conversation. While our plates were cleared and loaded onto a trolley, I followed Vance back inside the sitting area, and my gaze snagged a second time on the Hermes bag. The manager had said it was for me, hadn’t he?