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“Then please have dinner with me before I leave.”
I shake my head. “It won’t change anything, Pierre.”
“I promise not to pressure you. You said we could be friends.”
“Sure, we can. But no dinner.”
Pierre continues begging, and desperate to get him out of the apartment, I agree to have dinner with him in two hours at the Amelie, a French restaurant in West Village. If nothing else, it will be a good distraction from Miles.
I get him out of the house just a few minutes before Gabriel and Maddie return. I tell them that I’ll be having dinner with a friend. There’s a question in my brother’s eyes, but he doesn’t comment.
Dressed in a dark blue sleeveless sheath dress with heels and a small clutch, I leave the apartment and go down to the lobby, where I wait for Pierre. He’s staying at the Courtyard. I ask myself repeatedly if I’m crazy to be doing this. I guess an evening out with my ex-boyfriend is better than pining for a man who is out of my reach. With Pierre, at least I know where I stand.
He shows up looking dapper in a dove gray suit. I know he wants to impress me, but it falls flat. On our way downtown, we talk about the Louvre and he asks questions about the Met, which I gladly answer. I’m grateful he hasn’t mentioned anything about us getting back together again.
We arrive at the restaurant, and I wish we could sit outside with the other diners and enjoy the cool evening breeze and the overhead lamps, but there are no empty tables. I overhear a conversation in French, and I smile with longing. I do miss Paris.
The interior of the restaurant is welcoming. The ambiance is cozy, although it’s a little crowded and slightly noisy. Even though there’s a small queue, we follow a waitress to one of the empty tables. I’m about to shrug off my jacket when I catch a pair of intense gray eyes on me.
Miles? What’s he doing here?
My eyes shift from him to his companions. I recognize a few Met board members. His heated gaze trails my body before pointedly staring at Pierre, who is offering to take my jacket.
A little flustered but able to hide it, I smile and sit in the chair Pierre pulls out for me. I wish I could ask to go someplace else.
My brows curve when Pierre orders the best champagne from the outstanding wine bar.
“What are we celebrating?”
He grins widely. “Our reunion.”
“Pierre . . .”
“Please just indulge me, Gigi. I know you might feel it’s too soon, but I never thought we’d ever eat together again. Now here we are.”
Instantly, I regret coming to the restaurant with him. I should have shut him down instead of thinking I could use him to distract myself from Miles. The irony is that the very man I want to forget about is sitting a few paces from me and glancing in my direction almost every minute.
But why should I be bothered by it? Miles and I are only lovers. It’s not like we’re exclusive. The jerk hasn’t bothered to call me for a week after he fucked me sore in Washington. Is that too much to expect? Too clingy? Too desperate? Or maybe I misunderstood. What gives?
Well, now watch me drink champagne and eat oysters with a French hottie.
He doesn’t need to know that I’m not interested in Pierre.
I just have to make sure I stop looking in his direction, which is somewhat difficult to do as he’s sitting at a table close to ours.
I reluctantly drink the champagne after clinking glasses with a beaming Pierre. He insists on a three-course meal, even though I have little appetite and can’t wait to be rid of his mopey face and go home.
He starts a tirade about his sad life since I woke up from my hypnosis and dumped his sorry ass. The more he talks, the more I wonder what I ever saw in him. True, he’s handsome and successful, but I’m beginning to realize how tiresome he is.
As I enjoy the delicious food, it becomes harder to listen to him. I feel Miles’s heavy gaze trained on me, and I make a show of indulging in the succulent, plump oysters, savoring each slurp and hoping he’ll choke on his meal. Serves him right if he thinks I’m just a fuck and dump kind of girl. So, I take the opportunity and smile at Pierre as he continues talking about rebuilding our dead relationship. I chance a quick glance at Miles and smirk when I notice his eyes piercing Pierre like daggers, his knuckles white.
I have moved on. Not with Pierre, though, but Miles doesn’t need to know that.
Even though I’m not one to play games, the opportunity is just too good to pass up. Miles’s stare is trying to light me on fire. At this point, he is probably ready to snuff the life out of my dinner companion.
Mercifully, Pierre’s strenuous monologue is over, and our dessert plates have been cleared. I take another sip of my cabernet, which has been enormously helpful in bearing Pierre’s company. If it wasn’t for Miles and his jealous reaction, I would have left Pierre to finish his meal on his own a long time ago.
“Thanks for dinner,” I mumble as we walk outside.
