Lola & the Millionaires: Part One (Sweet Omegaverse #2)(95)

“Oofuck.”

Matthieu laughed, sitting up from beneath me, his hands cupping my head. “Aw, shit. Apologies, Lolotte.”

My eyes were fixed to the wet spot on his dark t-shirt, and I reached up to quickly wipe my mouth. Maybe he hadn’t noticed? Except those perfect crows feet were wrinkling in the corners of his eyes and his lips were twitching.

I sighed and tugged at the collar of his shirt. “Sorry about the…drool thing.”

“Forgiven,” he said, grinning. “You were talking in your sleep, you know?”

I frowned and sank back on my heels. Matthieu and I had curled up on the deep bench seat of the limousine for the ride back to the city. Since my sleeping had been pretty irregular all weekend, and Matthieu purred like a motor every time we touched, I’d slept nearly the entire way back.

“Was it a nightmare?” I asked.

Oddly enough, Matthieu’s smile grew even wider. “No, I think it was a confession of love. To french fries?”

I laughed, pulling my hair off the back of my sweaty neck and into a ponytail, pushing myself out of the limo and stumbling onto the sidewalk. Dreaming of french fries? For once, I regretted not remembering my dreams.

“It gave me an idea for dinner,” Matthieu said, sliding more gracefully out of the back of the car and heading for the trunk to grab our bags. “Have you ever had properly French fries? Pommes frites?”

My mouth was already watering. I shook my head and he nodded, passing our driver an envelope, probably a generous cash tip. “We’ll drop our things inside, and then I’ll take us for a drive.”

I followed Matthieu up the front steps and into the house, laughing as he took my hand and ditched our bags by the elevators.

“Don’t you want to change?” I asked, tugging on the back of the t-shirt I’d drooled on.

“No, we’ll… We won’t go in. It’ll be like a drive-thru, kind of.”

“French french fries from a drive-thru, in the city?”

“Kind of,” Matthieu repeated.

I’d only been down in the bottom level once for a quick swim, and we’d used the elevator to drop us off right by the pool. It was in a long and narrow space with optional jets for resistance, and a beautiful starlight speckled lighting feature on the ceiling. From the stairs with Matthieu, we passed the pool room, and a giant glassed-in gym with workout mats and two of every kind of exercise equipment.

“How much does the membership cost?” I asked, teasing Matthieu and eyeing the serious weight system.

“I’m pretty sure Wes would happily sneak you in anytime,” Matthieu said. “So would I for that matter.”

“No wonder you’re all so hot. I’d have a six-pack too if I had an onsite gym,” I said.

“Given the state of the rest of your building, I’m pretty sure you’d get tetanus if not something worse. Here we are.” Matthieu opened the door to a garage, four of five spaces occupied by the kind of beautiful pieces of machinery that anyone would stop to stare at if they saw them passing.

There was a lean polished black motorcycle at the far end of the room that surprised me, as well as several sports cars. But my favorite by far was the one Matthieu headed directly for, a vintage mint-colored convertible that was all curves and a long nose. It had a cream soft top up for the cool weather, and rounded cat-eye headlights.

“Is that yours?” I asked, jogging down the metal steps to the garage floor.

Matthieu opened the passenger door, his eyes busy admiring the car. “It is. The ’72 XKE.”

“Is that a serial number?” I asked, staring blankly back at him.

Matthieu snorted. “It’s a Jaguar. My favorite child,” he said grinning.

“You know, I know how to drive stick,” I said, waggling my eyebrows.

Matthieu’s eye twitched slightly. “I’m resisting the urge to make a terrible joke. Get in. Passenger side, please.”





Matthieu drove us to the trendiest district of Old Uptown, full of little boutiques and galleries and eclectic restaurants. We passed an upscale vintage store that I used to regularly window shop at, and then turned into a narrow alley.

“Umm, is this a legal maneuver?” I eyed the dumpster we passed narrowly with a slight wince. But it seemed unlikely that Matthieu would risk his precious convertible.

“It is, technically, a thoroughfare,” Matthieu said, his own gaze cautious on the wall near him. After the length of one deep building, the alley opened up and there was enough room for us to pass without holding our breath.

“Not one an SUV would fit through,” I said.

Matthieu stopped the car at a backdoor in the center of the block, and I got the first perfect whiff of salt and spud and grease.

“How have I missed this place? I used to live around here and I was on this block all the time.”

“Napoleon is in the basement level. They do most of their business while the clubs are open,” Matthieu said, pulling his cell out of his pocket and shooting off a text.

“And they take back alley orders?”

“They do from investors,” Matthieu said with a sheepish smile. “Normally I’d go in, but I’m in the mood to eat with a better view than exposed brick and a lot of hipsters.”

Before I could think of what to say to that, the back door opened and a young black man with a large grin and a white chef’s apron came dashing over to the car. Matthieu rolled the window down and shook his hand.