J.C. and the Bijoux Jolis (Blueberry Lane 3 - The Rousseaus #3)(3)

“Let’s start over,” she said, cocking her head to the side. “Here’s your line, Romeo: ‘Hi, I’m étienne’s brother, Jean-Christian. It’s nice to meet you.’ Want to give it a try?”

He cleared his throat, his smile fading. “Hi, I’m étienne’s brother, Jean-Christian. It’s nice to meet you.”

She locked eyes with his, her lips neutral, tilted neither up nor down. “Hi. I’m Libitz Feingold, Kate’s best friend…and it’s not cold enough.”

“What?” asked J.C., feeling completely turned around.

“It’s not cold enough in hell for me to fall for someone like you,” she said, then shifted back around to talk to the person on her other side.

Well, f*ck me, thought J.C., taking another gulp of beer as he tried to figure out if he was insulted or impressed. After a moment, he nudged her in the side with his elbow, and she looked at him over her shoulder, her expression annoyed.

“Yes?”

“I hear the temperature’s dropping there,” he said casually, then added, “because they’re expecting a visit from you.”

“Ha!” she chortled, a genuine grin brightening her eyes for a moment before she quickly reigned it back in to practiced ennui. “Is that right?”

He shrugged, tipping his bottle of beer back as he held her eyes, challenging her to come back at him with something clever. “So I heard.”

“From all the friends you’ve got there?”

He almost spit his beer out. Damn, but she was quick.

“Truce?” he asked, placing his beer on the table and holding out his hand.

She stared at his hand for a moment, then looked away, leaning forward to pick up her champagne glass and bringing it slowly to her lips. “No, thanks. Mama didn’t raise no fool.”

“You’re unreal.”

She shook her head, that bored look still in place. “Nope. I’m real. I’m just not a good target for charming scamps looking for trouble.”

“A target? Shit. Who got to you?” he asked, feeling a little abused by her insta-judgment of him without actually getting a chance to know him in person. Not that she was wrong exactly. But getting into trouble with the right person could be a hell of a lot of fun.

“The list is long and distinguished,” she shot back.

His eyes widened and his lips wobbled.

“Oh, God,” she said, shaking her head as her cheeks bloomed an appealing pink under her makeup, “I walked right into that one didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did,” said J.C. with what he hoped was a disarming grin. “All together, now…”

“So’s my Johnson,” they said at the same time, quoting the rebuttal line from Top Gun.

“Hey, look at that,” he said, still smiling at her. “You do know how to have fun. I was beginning to worry.”

Her smile instantly faded. “You’re not as cute as you think you are.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding as he finished the last of his beer, “I am.”

She rolled her eyes and presented him with her full back, their conversation apparently over.

“Jean-Christian!” muttered étienne, elbowing him in the side again as the priest gave him a dirty look.

“Père?” he asked, wondering what he’d just missed.

The priest sighed with exasperation. “The rings, my son?”

Fuck.

J.C. patted down his pockets, finally remembering he’d placed the two gold bands in his inside pocket and winking at Libitz as he handed them to étienne. She awarded him with a scathing look, shaking her head with disgust as the priest continued the ceremony by blessing the rings.

Damn, but he couldn’t catch a break with her. It was frustrating as hell.

He was good looking. He knew he was. For a fact.

Just last week, his sometimes-f*ckbuddy, recent divorcee Felicity Atwell, told him that he was a “real-life Gideon Cross.” And while he had no idea who the f*ck this Cross fellow was, hearing her purr the words “sexy and powerful…just like Gideon” into his ear while he thrust inside of her had made him come twice as fast.

Thankfully, Felicity was out of town this weekend, visiting friends in Scotland, so inviting her to the wedding as his date hadn’t been an issue. But frankly, he wouldn’t have invited her even if she was in town. He’d never promised her anything, after all. Theirs was a conscience-free, commitment-free arrangement of convenience, and either of them could walk away from it at any time. It was his favorite type of relationship, in fact: no expectations, no assumptions, no feelings. Just two mutually consenting adults who occasionally had drinks or dinner or f*cked. It was perfect.

Perfect because J.C. had no interest in committing himself to one woman when the world was full of delicious ladies of every color, shape, size, and age. Perfect because J.C. didn’t want the pressure of living up to one person’s expectations of him. Perfect because he didn’t want to be on either end of a two-person relationship when feelings that were meant to last forever would inevitably start to fade.

He’d watched it with his own parents: his father’s disinterest in his mother as she aged from a graceful and nubile ballerina into a middle-aged mother of four. He’d been witness to his father’s philandering, even included regularly when his father went to meet a paramour in the city. He’d been so familiar with the Morris House Hotel, in fact, that the concierge and bartenders knew his name. The first time J.C. had ever gotten drunk, it was at the Morris House Hotel, in the lobby bar, where Monsieur Rousseau had handed the bartender his gold card and told him to “babysit” J.C. while he disappeared for an hour.