The Score (Off-Campus #3)(31)
“Naah, it’s usually done to acknowledge the grandparents or some other wealthy relative.” He shrugs. “Sebastian is my grandfather on my dad’s side, Kendrick is on my mom’s.”
I guess that makes sense. But man, his full name is a total mouthful.
As something catches my eye, I quickly point at the screen. “See that guy lurking in the corner? The one with the mustache? That’s Antoine. He’s stalking Solange.”
Dean gives a mock gasp. “The plot thickens!”
I give him the finger. “But, in the last episode, we found out the reason he’s stalking her, and it’s not because he wants to jiggle down.”
“Jiggle down?”
“You know, f*ck her.”
“Right.” His lips twitch like he’s trying hard not to laugh. “So why’s he creeping on her then?”
“Because her mother paid him to.” I lower my voice, then feel like an idiot, because it’s not like Solange can f*cking hear me. “Oooh, and get this. Last episode there was another huge twist. Solange’s colleague from the modeling agency—oh, there she is.” On the screen, a stunning blonde enters the restaurant and sashays her way to Solange’s table. “That’s her mother,” I inform Dean. “Solange’s mother is pretending to be her colleague!”
He frowns. “How does that work? They’re the same age.”
“Nope,” I say smugly. “This is where the cosmetic company comes in.”
Dean looks utterly lost. “What cosmetic company?”
“Beauté éternelle. I looked it up, and it stands for Eternal Beauty. Solange’s family owns it. Oh, and her father and uncle are big-time plastic surgeons. Anyway, Solange thinks her mother ran off when she was a kid. Well, her mother did run off, actually. But after the dad died, Marie-Thérèse came back to the French Riviera and blackmailed the uncle into doing plastic surgery on her, so now she looks like a totally different person. Solange has no idea that she’s spent the last six months working with her mother.”
“Allie.” Dean leans forward and fixes me with an eerily somber stare. “This show is f*cking stupid.”
“I know,” I say sheepishly. “But it’s addictive. Trust me, one episode of this crap and you’ll be hooked.”
“Sorry, baby doll, but I can pretty much guarantee that’s not gonna happen.”
*
Dean
It happened.
God help me. I’m into this show.
I came over tonight with the single-minded purpose of working the charm and convincing Allie to get naked with me again. Instead, I’m sipping on a margarita, I’ve just watched two hours’ worth of a French soap opera, and now I’m texting Logan to let him know I won’t make it to Malone’s. Because…God help me…I want to know what happens next.
Marie-Thérèse and Antoine hooked up in the last episode, which ended with a crazed Marie-Thérèse holding a letter opener to his throat—when there was no previous indication that she had any sort of beef with Antoine. Or hell, maybe there was and we just didn’t pick up on it because we don’t f*cking speak French.
“I still don’t get why she has a grudge against Solange,” I admit as Allie hovers over the coffee table to top off our margaritas. The wide neckline of her shirt shifts to one side, providing me with a view of one bare shoulder and the swell of her left boob.
I’m about to comment on how the sexy view is much appreciated, then think better of it. I promised I wouldn’t hit on her tonight, and if I break that promise she might kick me out before I find out why Marie-Thérèse tried to kill Antoine.
Allie flops down beside me, and I give myself a mental high-five because she didn’t leave a foot of distance between us this time. We’re inches apart now, which tells me she’s starting to warm up to me.
“I’m not sure either. I haven’t figured out the whole backstory yet. I think it has something to do with Solange’s father loving his daughter more than his wife,” Allie muses. “There were some flashbacks in the earlier episodes that heavily implied he wanted to jiggle down with his daughter.”
“Kinky.”
She snickers.
We go quiet as the next episode picks up exactly where it left off. Antoine manages to subdue Marie-Thérèse, and the two proceed to argue for ten minutes. Don’t ask me about what, because it’s in French, but I do notice that the same word—héritier—keeps popping up over and over again during their fight.
“Okay, we need to look up that word,” I say in aggravation. “I think it’s important.”
Allie grabs her cell phone and swipes her finger on the screen. I peek over her shoulder as she pulls up a translation app. “How do you think you spell it?” she asks.
We get the spelling wrong three times before we finally land on a translation that makes sense: heir.
“Oh!” she exclaims. “They’re talking about the father’s will.”
“Shit, that’s totally it. She’s pissed off that Solange inherited all those shares of Beauté éternelle.”
We high five at having figured it out, and in the moment our palms meet, pure clarity slices into me and I’m able to grasp precisely what my life has become.