Turned out I needed a nap. With the windows cracked to let in the sweet wisteria-scented breeze, and while curled up on a plush bed with silky blankets, I slept without tossing or turning, without care. It was glorious. I woke feeling rested and alert.
After taking a long hot shower and taking time to dry my hair, I walked back to the living room and found an envelope had been pushed through the mail slot.
It was an invite to coffee and cakes at four. On cream vellum paper with actual calligraphy writing. A vibrant rainbow-hued butterfly, edged in raised gold, graced the bottom corner of the note, right beside the signature scrawled with a flourish: AMALIE.
It was so wonderfully old world and beautiful. I pinned the note on the small corkboard hanging by the back door in my kitchen and got ready. And then dithered. Did I arrive early? Just on time? Never late—that would be rude.
Twenty minutes to four, I decided to quit stalling and just go. Outside, the air was crisp but not cold. I followed the winding path made from moss-edged slate to the big house. The invitation had instructed me to head toward the north terrace, wherever that was. When the path turned, I followed it toward a gate that had been left open.
With every step forward, the flutters of anticipation in my belly grew in size and strength. It unnerved me. I met new people every day. As an actress, I was thrust into constant social situations. But I knew that wasn’t why my body felt tight and warm or why my heart beat just a little faster. It was him. I wanted to see him again and wondered if I would.
That Lucian of the grunts and hmms had gotten under my skin in less than two hours was more than unnerving. It was downright alarming. Especially since I knew he’d do his best to ignore me like the plague. It was written in every line of his big, beautiful, tense body.
“So get over it. You’re an actress. Just play it cool,” I muttered under my breath.
“Talking to yourself?” drawled an unfamiliar voice behind me. “You’ll fit in just right.”
The shock of finding I wasn’t alone had my heart lurching into my throat. I spun around to find a tall Hispanic man with an incredible Elvis pompadour smiling at me. There was no malice in the expression. He seemed happily amused.
“Hello there.” He held out a perfectly manicured hand. Long red nails glinted in the dappled sunlight. “I’m Salvador. Everyone calls me Sal.”
I took his hand and shook it. “Hello, Sal. I’m Emma.”
“Oh, I know who you are.” He smiled wide. I found myself crushing on his crimson lipstick. “I put the invitation in your mailbox.”
“Right. Lucian said I should contact you if I needed anything.” Mentioning his name brought forth a fizzy anticipation that needed to be ground down into dust. Then again, wouldn’t it be better to know if he lived on the property or just worked here and went home to . . . God, was he married? Involved with someone? He’d flirted, but plenty of asshats who were in relationships did that. No, I wouldn’t think about dickhead Greg. Still, there was a lot I didn’t know about Lucian. And damn if I didn’t want to.
I bit the bottom of my lip, trying to figure out how to ask the questions burning in me without coming off as utterly nosy. “Do you . . . ah . . . I was going to ask . . .” About Lucian, which was none of my business. Chagrined by my nosiness, I filled in the blank with the first thing to come to mind. “What is that fantastic lip color you’re wearing?”
With a wink, he nudged me. “Velvet Ribbon. Very hard to come by. However, I have an extra tube, if you’re interested.”
“You’re serious?”
He nodded and extended his arm to gesture toward the open gate. “Of course. We’re neighbors for the time being.”
When I stepped inside, Sal hooked my elbow with his and led me along. “I live in the big house with Amalie. I’m her assistant and stylist.”
Sal spoke of her with a kind of awed respect and deep fondness, and I felt as though I should know who Amalie was, aside from being Granny Cynthia’s friend. The only people I knew of who had stylists were either famous or involved with someone famous. I glanced at Sal’s impeccably tailored black slacks and gold silk Versace shirt, which I knew cost more than most people’s monthly rent. His style was Miami meets Nashville, but it worked for him.
“Amalie has been wanting to meet you for some time,” Sal continued.
“I admit I don’t know much about her.” We passed a fountain with a statue of a naked man holding a trident. “Granny said she was lovely and had just the place to relax for a while.”