Olivier (Chicago Blaze 9)

“He’s a good man,” Ben says in tone so low only I can hear it.

I smile at him and he winks at me. He gets back into the SUV and drives away, and Olivier takes my hand and leads me through the crowd on the sidewalk.

Holding hands must be in his made-up rule book, too. But things between us aren’t going any further than that.

“Mr. Durand,” the man at the host stand says when we get inside. “We’re so pleased you’re here tonight. Right this way.”

It reminds me of going places with my father. People are staring and the staff is falling all over themselves trying to impress us. When I was young, I thought it was because we were special. But as I grew up, I realized it was all about money.

If you have it, all doors are open. And if you don’t, most or all of them are shut. Even doors that lead to basic needs such as food and shelter. Once I figured that out, I no longer felt special when I went out to dinner with my family at places where the price of one steak could feed a family of three for a week—I felt ashamed.

“I hope this place is okay,” Olivier says once we’re alone at our table. “My marketing director at the Carson Center recommended it. Her son works here.”

“It’s good. I mean, it looks really good. I usually don’t sit down at restaurants anymore, but I do get a lot of takeout.”

He smiles. “Yeah, Giselle and I end up getting a lot of takeout, too. There’s a noodle place by our apartment she loves. We get their food at least once a week.”

“So is it just you and her?”

“For the past year or so it has been. Her mom lives in the area, but things aren’t so great between them right now.”

“And Giselle is sixteen?”

“Yeah.” He takes out his phone and pulls up a photo. “This is her.”

She’s standing on a cobblestone street, both arms out in the air, grinning. The Eiffel Tower is behind her in the distance. She has the same sandy brown hair as her father does, with blue eyes and braces on her teeth.

“She’s pretty,” I say, glancing up to meet his eyes.

“Thank you.”

“Does she do any activities or sports?”

His smile fades. “Not anymore. To be honest, the past year has been a struggle for my daughter. She has depression.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks. We’re getting help, but I’m finding out that it’s still hard sometimes. As a father, I just want to make it better, but usually I can’t.”

His forlorn expression is one I’ve never seen on Olivier. I didn’t imagine him ever looking or feeling helpless. It’s apparent he hurts for his daughter, and loves her deeply. And I’m drawn to that.

“Never stop trying,” I say, reaching across the table and taking his hand. “You’re doing a great job.”

The corners of his lips turn up slightly and he squeezes my hand gently. “Thanks for saying that. It’s tough sometimes, but she’s worth it.”

Our eyes meet across the table, and stomach flutters. I wasn’t expecting this. I knew Olivier was attractive and charming, but this…this is something different.

My pulse is pounding. My skin is tingling. It’s like something clicked into place, and now I can’t deny it anymore. At least, not to myself.

Olivier Durand and I have some serious chemistry happening.

Chapter Eleven

Olivier

Daphne is laughing so hard she’s wiping away tears from the corners of her eyes.

“So Grandma Jo told my mom she would end up stranded on a remote island during their next sailing trip if she didn’t stop fighting Julia over every little thing she wanted for her wedding. And my mom’s eyes were like saucers—she knew not to put anything past my grandma. And all of a sudden, she told Julia her Neapolitan cake would be just fine.”

Laughing at the image of Josephine Barrington’s no-nonsense tone and fiery attitude, I say, “I can definitely see her doing that.”

Her laughter becomes a smile, her eyes shining with happiness. “Grandma Jo is the fiercest woman I know. I think I’m more like her than my mother. She fights different battles than I do, but the spirit is the same, you know? A long time ago, she convinced all the wives at her exclusive country club to stop cooking dinner and having sex with their husbands until they changed the rules to open up the club fully to everyone, regardless of their gender, race or sexual orientation.”

I laugh, and I can feel Daphne looking at me as I do. It’s nearly 11:00 p.m., and we’ve been sitting in a little ice cream shop for more than an hour, two empty dishes in front of us. It’s been a great night, and I don’t want it to end.

“How did that work out?” I ask.