The Lion's Den(69)

“I’m not!” she insisted. “I made these plans before I met John.”

“Do you want me to get rid of him?”

She bit her lip. “No. It’ll be fine.”

I stood and pointed my feet in the direction of the living room, reminding myself with every step to act nonchalant in front of Summer. I swung open the door to find Eric dressed in his usual black, the morning sun lighting his green eyes. He smiled, and any annoyance I’d had at him for turning up on my doorstep to collect Summer dissipated. “Hi.” He leaned in to give me a lingering kiss on the cheek. My pulse quickened. “Good to see you. Hey, I finally saw your web series where you’re a junkie in med school. Awesome work. You were so raw. It was—I was blown away. Really.”

I raised my brows, taken aback. “Wow, you actually watched it. Thank you.” Then, remembering why he was here, “Summer’s—”

I turned to see her lingering in the doorway to the kitchen, eyeing us. “Did you see her web series?” he asked Summer. “This girl’s a real leading lady.”

“Not yet. But I’m sure it’s great.”

“You guys ready?” he asked. “The gallery gave me a driver.” He gestured in the general direction of the street. “He’s waiting.”

“Belle’s not coming,” Summer said.

“Oh.” He turned to me. “Why not?”

I raised my hands. “I don’t know what’s going on. I hadn’t heard you were in town.”

He looked between us, confused. “We were all going to my hotel to hang out by the pool and then go to the show tonight.”

“Sorry.” Summer smiled. “I just got back from Asia last night. Things have been kinda crazy. I totally forgot. Lemme just grab a couple things.”

She strode down the hallway to the bedroom, and Eric moved deeper into the living room, out of her line of sight. “Did you not get my DM?” he whispered.

I shook my head. “Sorry.”

“Fuck.” He actually seemed upset. “You can’t come?”

Was he crazy? Or did he have some fucked-up idea we were going to have a threesome or something? I laughed. “No way am I hanging out with the two of you and whatever’s going on there.”

We were silenced by the sound of Summer’s stride in the hallway. She appeared looking like a million bucks in heels and a sundress, a new Louis Vuitton overnight bag slung over her shoulder. I’d never in my life wanted to sock her as badly as I did in that moment. “Okay.” She beamed. “Ready.”

“Have fun, guys!” I buried my resentment under a bright smile, fully aware I had no right to be resentful in the first place. He was, after all, her ex…or whatever.

Eric turned to me. “Belle, you really should come, too. It’ll be fun—”

I was saved from coming up with an excuse by Summer, who clearly didn’t want me along, either. “Belle has other things to do.”

“I gotta go work on something.” I excused myself, beelining for the hallway.

But before I could reach my room, Eric called out, “You should at least come to the show tomorrow night. It’s all about botany. I think you’d like it.”

“I’d love to,” I said, “but I’m shooting tomorrow night.”

“Oh, what are you working on?” Eric asked.

“Low-budget thriller. But at least I don’t die in this one. Have a good show.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Stay alive.”

“Same to ya.”

I closed the door to my bedroom, turned on the music, and balled my fists so tightly my nails left crescents in my palms.





Day 6

Thursday morning—Saint-Tropez, France



I’m never drinking again. My head is throbbing, my mouth is dry, and I’ve sweated through the sheets; all I want to do is hide in the dark, cool cabin until the cloud lifts, but someone is knocking at the damn door.

Amythest continues to snore, dead to the world. I wish I could sleep like that.

“Yes?” I call when I realize the knocking is not going to stop on its own.

There it is again. I groan and throw the covers off, pull on a T-shirt, and open the door.

Camille stands in the hallway with a tray of coffee and red, puffy eyes. “Sorry. I must make sure you get out of bed. You go shopping today. We dock at ten.”

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She nods quickly, but the tears that spring to her dark eyes betray her. She tries to hand me the tray so she can leave, but instead I motion her inside, closing the door behind her as she sets the tray on the bed and furtively dries her eyes. I don’t want to pry, but the girl is clearly upset, and I’m worried she’s the latest victim of Summer’s displeasure. “Is there something I can help you with?” I ask gently.

This elicits a fresh round of tears, which she tries in vain to dam. “Dé-désolé,” she stammers.

“It’s okay,” I say, handing her one of the napkins off the tray. “You’re safe here. This is entre nous.”

We both look over at Amythest, sleeping like the dead.

“C’est…ma mère,” she says. “I send to her mon chèque, habituellement par Western Union. She depend on it. She is sick. Mais maintenant Emmanuelle go, I must stay here on the boat to do her work. I cannot poster le chèque.” She chokes back a sob. “Désolé, je suis très fatigué. I do not want problèmes.”