Dirty Headlines

I wobbled my way on a path to the ladies room, which took me by Célian and the mystery brunette. Once I was close enough to them, I slowed my pace, hearing them speak in French. The words rolled off of their tongues, and my vindictive heart nearly burst into flames. Here he was, pulling the same old trick he’d used on me while his fiancée was sitting at home, making plans, dreaming about their future. Fake or not, he was still in a relationship. Parading with women in bars was in bad taste.

Since I didn’t actually need to pee, I settled for pacing in the bathroom, stewing in my own anger.

Did I need my job?

Yes.

Was I excited to be working in a newsroom?

More than anything else in the world.

I still hadn’t told my college friends, but I knew they were going to go crazy when they heard the job I’d snagged at LBC. None of that mattered right now, though, and maybe it was the Bacardi I’d gulped on an empty stomach, but confronting him seemed like a terribly good idea.

Emphasis on the word terribly.

I darted out of the bathroom and pushed through the crowd. Once I got to Célian, I tapped his shoulder. He turned around in slow motion, his smug smile undeterred, even when he saw my face, charred with agony. The woman next to him shot me an interested look, but didn’t say a word, cradling her glass of white wine.

“Humphry,” he said.

“Laurent,” I quipped, feeling bold. “Does she know?”

“Know what?” His lips broadened into an even wider grin, but that meant nothing. Célian was always nonchalant. A meteor could be speeding toward Earth at the speed of light, crashing and killing all of us in exactly two hours, and he still wouldn’t skip the foreplay when he took this girl to his presidential suite for their sexcapade.

“Any of the following things, really. One—” I jerked my thumb up. “That it’s your thing. You pretend to be a French tourist and take women to a hotel suite for the night, even though you’re American, born and bred. Two—” I pointed my forefinger at him. “That you have a fiancée waiting back home, and three—”

I gave him the middle finger, narrowing my eyes as I tried to come up with something… There was a three. I was certain of it. Unfortunately, I’d forgotten what it was.

He stared at me expectedly, his smile threatening to slice his face in half. I never realized he was so devastatingly dashing and boyish. His smile felt like a deep, lazy kiss under a perfect sunset.

“Three doesn’t matter right now,” I amended. “Does she know those other things?”

He turned to his companion and stroked his chin, looking thoughtful. “Do you know all those things, cuz?”

Cuz?

She offered me her hand, and I shook it, my mouth agape. “Hi. I’m Emilie, Célian’s cousin. I study fashion here in New York. First year. Célian is helping me… ah, what’s the word?” she said in her ridiculously enchanting accent. “Settle in.”

She squeezed his forearm, and I saw it in the way they looked at each other. Family. I began to look for a rock under which I could hide for the next decade.

I pretended to gravely consider this new information while stroking my chin. “Hmm, yes. Célian is definitely good at settling.” Someone shut me up. Anyone. Please. Bartender?

I was ripping into his relationship, and playing Russian roulette with my job.

“You’re too kind.” He ran a seemingly friendly hand along the back of my arm, his rough palm sending waves of lust to my lower belly, dampening my panties. “Humphry, in contrast, excels at looting.” His tongue moved across his upper teeth, like the bad wolf he was. “Practically stealing all the dirty headlines from our competitors.”

I took a cautious step back. Why did I have to be so impulsive? Why had I assumed the role of his fiancée’s keeper? I had a sick father to take care of at home. Luckily, Célian didn’t look even half offended by my antics. I wondered if it was because I’d slayed the South Korean pop star assignment. His attitude toward people did seem to stem directly from their performance in his newsroom.

“I think I’m going to go.” I swallowed.

“Good thinking. You should do it more often.” He reached for his whiskey casually. “Enjoy your night, Chucks.”

“You too, Mr.… Laurent. Boss. Sir.”

I wish I hadn’t been standing on my feet. Shoving one of them into my mouth seemed like a great way to put a lid on this conversation. I made my way back to Ava and Grayson. Luckily, they hadn’t noticed the Célian debacle. They were too busy arguing about the merits of saffron lollipops as a weight-loss method. They were so engrossed in the subject, they didn’t even notice when the bartender slid me a plate with a roast beef sandwich, a bottle of whiskey, and three glasses.