The Dirty Truth

“Will you be paying for your new place in cash, or will you be financing it with your wife’s trust fund?” West blinks as he delivers his casual question.

Matt’s “client” wrinkles her elegant nose. “What’s he talking about, babe?”

Babe.

“His wife left him,” I chime in. “Two months ago. Because she caught him with another woman.” I press my fingertip against my collarbone. “In my defense, I had no idea he was married because he failed to mention that the entire eighteen months we were together.”

The Chanel-clad beauty takes a step back. “Matty, is that true?”

Matty.

“It’s a bit more complicated than that—” he begins to say before she tosses her hands up and heads for the door. He chases after her in damage control mode, like a dog with his tail tucked.

“Good teamwork,” West says once they’re gone.

“Okay, two things.” I lift an index finger. “First of all, why are you here? And secondly, I had everything under control. You didn’t have to swoop in and rescue me.”

“I was doing that thing you told me to do,” he says, “where you do the things you wouldn’t normally do.”

“Ah. So that was all for your benefit.”

“One hundred percent.” There’s an unusual air of playfulness in his tone.

“Seriously, though, what are you doing here?” I scan the room for my server once again, who is apparently missing in action.

“A man’s got to eat.” He catches the eye of someone in the distance, lifting his fingers as if to casually wave them over. A second later, a man in a burgundy suit and shiny black loafers approaches us. “Étienne, good to see you again.”

“Mr. Maxwell,” the man says, extending his hand.

“Thanks again for squeezing in that catering order yesterday. I know it was last minute, but it meant the world to my team and me,” West says. “They’ve been working extra hard this year, and I wanted to reward them with the best breakfast in Manhattan.”

Étienne glows with West’s praise, nodding and thanking him profusely, as though West’s emergent order yesterday were doing him a favor.

“Will you be having your usual, sir?” Étienne asks.

“Of course,” West says. “And the same for my guest, please.”

Étienne leaves us with an accommodating nod before strutting off to the kitchen.

I cock my head. “You didn’t have to order for me.”

“I know.”

“How do you even know I’ll like what you’re having?”

His mouth lifts at the side. “You will.”

Before I have a chance to respond, our server appears out of nowhere with a fresh carafe of coffee, two porcelain mugs, and a tiny pitcher of cream.

“By the way, how did you know about Matt?” I squint.

He pours steaming coffee into a mug with expert precision. “I have my ways.”

“And how did you know that was Matt?”

His exotic gaze slips onto mine. “Again, I have my ways.”

“So it’s okay for you to pry into people’s pasts, but they’re not allowed to pry into yours?”

“Generally.” He tips a splash of cream into his cup before giving it a stir. “But I think we’ve moved past that, don’t you?”

Leaning back, I take him in.

“I don’t know whether to be flattered or creeped out that you checked into my relationship history,” I say.

“Tom mentioned it yesterday morning when I asked if he’d heard from you lately.” He takes a sip. “He told me you were moving on, and then he went into great detail as to everything you’d been through lately.”

I wince. Sounds like Tom.

Once he gets nervous, he word vomits all over the place.

“Oh.” I play it cool. “So you weren’t googling me . . .”

“I don’t google anyone.” He takes another sip. “I have people who do that for me.”

“Just like you have people who shop for you,” I say. “Do you have people who date for you too? Like a proxy type thing?”

He flashes a half-second smile. “Now that’s an idea.”

“Do you date?” I lift a brow.

“What exactly are you asking, Elle? If I’ve gone on dates in the past or if I’m actively dating at the moment?”

My cheeks flush warm under the intensity of his gaze, though I get the sense he isn’t annoyed with my question this time.

“Both,” I say.

“Yes.” His eyes flash. “And no. Not seeing anyone at the moment.”

“Mademoiselle. Monsieur.” Our server arrives with an array of artfully arranged croissants, jams, poached eggs, fresh berries, and butters, spread across a myriad of plates—enough to feed a family of five. “Can I get you anything else at the moment?”

“No, thank you, Alain,” he answers the man, though his gaze is trained on me. “I believe we have everything we need.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

WEST

“How’d it go tonight?” I ask Scarlett Wednesday evening when she returns from spending time with Elle. “What kinds of trouble did you two get into this time?”

I toss her a playful wink in an attempt to keep things light.