One to Chase (One to Hold 7)

Nodding, I swipe an apple out of the basket. “If it makes you happy, I’ll meet with Edward. Does he sparkle?”

“Why would he... Oh! Is that the new slang for gay? I don’t actually know. He didn’t seem to be, but I never can tell anymore—”

“No!” I can’t help laughing. “It’s a book! Nevermind. Should I call first?”

She’s still mildly confused. “Elaine said she’d take care of the whole thing. You just have to be at his office at eleven, and he’ll meet with you there.”

A quick glance at the clock says I have a few hours. “At least it’s Friday. Please tell Elaine I said thank you. And I can only hope she deserves my favorite brother.”

“That’s my girl. When you’re done, let’s have lunch at L15.”

My nose immediately wrinkles. “Good god, is that place still in business?”

She glances up concerned. “No good?”

“It’s the classic joke—the food is terrible, and the portions are too small!”

Now she laughs, a sweet, musical sound. Our mother really is too good to be true. “Then you pick the place. I won’t treat you like a tourist.”

“Is Millie’s still around?”

“On the East Loop?” I nod, and she concedes. “See you there at noon.”

Chapter 2: Surprises

Amy

The law offices of Merritt, Hampton, and Donnelly are an easy walk from Sylvia’s Near North condo. I’m thankful for that as I head south on Michigan. I love my mother, but I need to clear my head this morning.

Armand started messaging me last week.

I know why you ran. The words still glow in my brain. I’m not angry. Tell me when you’re coming home.

Home. An uncomfortable tightness clutches the back of my neck, like someone lightly grazed his fingernails across the skin of my shoulders and then snatched my neck as hard as he could.

I shiver in the warm air.

Coming back to Chicago was supposed to end my Paris problem, but with cell phones and social media, I feel like I can never get far enough away anymore.

Armand is not my home. How could he even say that? He ruined everything.

Our relationship was strictly sexual from the start. As a chief executive at Arnys, one of the leading men’s fashion houses in Paris, he was dripping with wealth and access, not to mention always impeccably dressed.

We met during fashion week. I sat on the front row across the catwalk from the dark-haired, dark-eyed Adonis who wouldn’t take his eyes off me. Naturally, I had my roommate Celeste introduce us once it was over. Celeste is French cool, but I knew her well enough to see she was star struck by him.

She interned at Vogue, which was how we scored our great seats. I could afford to buy tickets, of course, but her position seated us two chairs down from Donatella at the Atelier Versace show.

The fashions were amazing—solid black pantsuits with swirling or asymmetrical patterns cut out of the necklines, go-go red dresses with glittery geometric shapes and arrows crossing the bodice. And of course, Donatella’s signature white slacks and blazer. All set to the techno-chic musical backdrop of David Guetta.

Then my eyes landed on Armand’s black ones. The slightest grin lifted the corner of his mouth, and my insides sizzled. He was older, sophisticated, a touch of grey at his temples.

After Celeste introduced us, he took me to dinner at Epicure and then to his apartment near Sacre Coeur where we fucked the night away. The next morning, he sent me home in his car, and that was the beginning of what I thought was our mutually beneficial arrangement.

We both had demanding jobs, we both had plenty of money, and we both had a taste for the finer things. Not to mention Armand was fantastic in bed. He was older, but he kept my needs met.

Six months in and he presented me with a key to his maison, and with a sly grin revealing straight white teeth, he practically insisted I give up my place with Celeste and move in with him.

First, I would not leave Celeste high and dry like that. What kind of friend would I be?