Sweet Talker Page 11

  I watch Ethan’s dimpled smile grow bigger and bigger as he reads the glowing three-star review, which by Michelin standards is outstanding and very difficult to receive.

  “Louis is going to be over the moon,” Ethan says. “He was worried his special tasting menu was too ambitious.”

  “Inventive and delicious, more like,” I say, thrilled that having Elijah here paid off. Not that I was worried. The food is some of the best I’ve had and working for Ireland, I’ve tasted a lot of incredible food.

  “Thanks again,” Ethan says with deep sincerity. There isn’t an ungrateful bone in his body, even when things don’t go his way.

  “Go ahead. You can say it.”

  “It.” He smirks.

  Louis steps out of the kitchen, drawing our attention. I give him two thumbs-up. Ethan says, “It’s already been posted. Come read for yourself.”

  Louis doesn’t let his guard down very often, so when he’s finished reading the review and squeezes Ethan’s shoulder with a grin on his face, I know he was touched by the very positive evaluation.

  “Thank you, Pascale.”

  “You’re welcome, Chef.”

  Louis walks away with a definite spring in his step.

  “Okay. I guess this makes you number one,” Ethan playfully relents. “Since Louis is so happy. But…” He trails off until he catches my eye again. “It’s a precarious position to be in.”

  “Noted,” I say around a proud, tease-me-all-you-want smile. Not all my plans work out, but this one did. I lean back in my chair and glance out the window. It’s a picture-perfect day outside, vibrant colors as far as I can see. Which is why a woman dressed in black pants and a black long-sleeved shirt who is trying to look discreet while she fiddles with something in her hands stands out. Passersby on the sidewalk don’t take note of her, but something doesn’t sit right with me.

  Ethan gets a text. He mumbles something about Drew and buries his nose in his phone.

  The woman on the street looks around, and I catch a glimpse of her vaguely familiar face. She’s young, probably early twenties, and she’s biting her lip, a telltale sign she’s nervous. I try to make out the object in her hands. It isn’t a phone, but does fit in her palm. Barely.

  She turns her head left then right, like maybe she’s waiting for someone. Or scanning the area. I stand up, my gut telling me to investigate.

  My change in position snags her attention through the window. I don’t think she can see me as clearly as I can see her with sunlight reflecting off the glass, but our eyes meet. I’ve definitely seen her someplace before. Panic quickly burdens her features and she jerks her arm up and back to throw the object in her hand.

  “Ethan! Get down.” I yank him off his chair and push him to the floor. He wasn’t expecting my sudden outburst so he falls easily.

  “What are you…” There’s a loud crash as something hits the window, shattering the glass with an ear-splitting crack.

  Things happen at lightning speed after that. Glass litters the table and floor, but Ethan is unharmed. The object lands with a thud next to my shoulder, rolling out of reach. It’s a jagged rock the size of an orange. I jump to my feet and make a run for the girl, bursting through the restaurant’s front door and sprinting down the sidewalk. She’s climbing into a car parked at the curb.

  “Hey!” I shout.

  She pauses for a split second before fumbling to close the driver’s side door. I reach her before she turns the key in the ignition. “Out of the car!” I order.

  I’m relieved when she makes no attempt to drive off. Instead, she drops her head and leans forward against the steering wheel. Long, dark hair hides her face.

  Ethan appears at the passenger door. We share a quick look over the roof of the car. “The police are on their way,” he says. Then against what my stern look is supposed to convey to him, he opens the car door and kneels down to talk to the girl.

  At least he’s keeping a few feet back.

  I open her door and do a quick search of the interior to be sure there aren’t any weapons. There are fast-food wrappers, textbooks, and a drawstring backpack with the words Rock-Star Indoor Rock Climbing on it. I crouch down to her level as well.

  The girl is crying.

  “Hey,” Ethan says, his eyes widening when he sees the backpack. This girl has been to Zander’s facility.

  Anger toward the young woman turns to concern.

  “I’m Ethan, but I think you already know that. What’s your name?”

  She cries harder. While I can sympathize with how upset she is, the fact remains she threw a rock through a window and most likely is the person responsible for the other “gifts” delivered to Ethan.

  Sirens wail in the distance.

  “You wanted my attention and now you’ve got it. What’s up?” he says amicably. When she doesn’t answer right away he adds, “I’d like to hear your story before the police get here. If you level with me, maybe I can help.”

  I’m not sure she deserves such nicety, but the vulnerable, regretful vibe surrounding her makes it easier to lean toward forgiveness. I’ve caught people in the wrong before, and they usually mouth off and get aggressive immediately.

  Slowly, she sits back against her seat, tucks her hair behind her ears. I get a good look at her. Seeing her up close and knowing she rock climbs, I remember who she is. “It’s Sydney, right?” I ask. The girl who was working the front desk when Ethan and I went rock climbing.

  She glances down like maybe her name is etched on her shirt.

  “I have a good memory,” I tell her. “You work the front desk at Rock-Star.”

  Surprise moves across Ethan’s face. “You work for Zander?”

  Her focus stays out the windshield. “Yes.”

  Ethan slides his palm down his cheek and over his jaw. “I don’t remember seeing you there.”

  And that right there is most likely the crux of the situation. Sydney is in love with Ethan and he doesn’t know she exists. She feels rejected by him and thus, acted out inappropriately.

  “I’ve handed you your shoes seven different times,” she says. “Eight counting the last time with her.” Sydney points to me.

  “I’m pretty focused on the kids when I’m there, so any slight on my part wasn’t intentional.”

  She rolls her head to the side to look at him. “I wanted you to notice me and when you didn’t, it hurt.”

  “Are you responsible for the other letters and the snake?” Ethan asks, his tone even.

  “My friends dared me to play tricks on you.”

  “What you’ve done is a serious offense, Sydney. It’s called criminal harassment,” I say. “If anyone had been hurt…”

  She drops her head in her hands and starts to sob again. “I’m sorry.”

  A police car pulls up. Ethan stands and meets the officers as they exit their vehicle.

  “I think I wanted to get caught today,” Sydney mumbles through sniffles and tears. “I wanted this to be over.”

  I think she did, too. The bold move was a shout for help and I’ll recommend she gets it. There is a lot more going on with her than just peer pressure. I’ve seen girls with celebrity crushes do disrespectful things and one reason for that is they don’t respect themselves.

  Sydney voluntarily steps out of her car and cooperates with the police. We talk with her at length until her parents arrive. Ethan doesn’t want to press charges, but he can’t let her off the hook completely, either. That would be a disservice to everyone. We leave it that Ethan’s attorney will be in touch.

  The staff, who have gathered outside the entrance to watch the spectacle, trip over themselves to get back inside the restaurant when Ethan and I make our way over.

  He gives everyone the scoop and they go back to work. Someone has cleaned up the mess of glass, and a window repair person is arriving in the next hour.

  I join him at a new table. Elbows on the crisp white cloth, he runs both hands through his hair. Fine lines crease his
forehead. “I need to do better,” he says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She interacted with me eight times and I didn’t even recognize her. Eight fucking times. All of this could have been prevented if I’d just said ‘hey, Sydney, how are you today?’ but I didn’t pay her any attention.”

  “Ethan. You’re not—”

  “To blame? I kind of am. That I made her feel insignificant is on me. I walk around here—” he glances across the room “—like I’m king of the world and everyone knows my name and right now I’m disgusted with that fact. What if that girl…what if Sydney had hurt someone? Or herself? This is shame on me no matter how you look at it.”

  “You didn’t do it on purpose, Ethan. When you’re at Rock-Star, you’re wrapped up in all the kids you’re helping with a place to go every Sunday. I saw firsthand how they come up to you and want your attention. And you give it to them.”

  He stands abruptly. “I’ve got to go. Can you handle things here the rest of the day?”

  “Of course,” I say, a sharp pang of hurt piercing my heart. I wish he’d asked me to help him instead.

  Ethan

  “Boom!” I shout, punching the air in victory. Again. “Drink up, mo fos.”

  “Goddammit,” Finn says before downing the beer in his plastic cup. The fact that he’s drinking with his return to the baseball field just two weeks away is testament to his brotherly love. The guy takes what he puts in his body very seriously.

  The goal tonight, though? Get shit-faced.

  News travels fast in the Auprince family. My brothers arrived an hour ago to cheer me up and it’s helping.

  Drew drinks without complaint then scoots me over. He holds a ping-pong ball with the tips of his fingers and practices his aim down the table in my kitchen. We’ve set up our own version of beer pong with a diamond formation of red SOLO cups. Beer is sloshed all over the table. Ping-pong balls are everywhere.

  And I don’t care.

  “Bam!” Drew shouts, landing his ping-pong ball in a cup. “Fill her up!” He holds his cup out for a refill, too. He’s a riot.

  I sling my arm around him. Smile. “You make me happy, Drew Magoo.”

  “I know I do.”

  “Okay you two, break it up and watch the master.” Finn squeezes in between us. He’s the master because the pecker shoots with his eyes closed—it’s the professional athlete courtesy—and still makes it 90 percent of the time. The guy is unfairly talented with balls of any size.

  I bust out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” he asks.

  “Nothing.”

  Finn takes a shot. Scores. “That’s right,” he says. “Number one right here.”

  “One and done,” I say, chugging another cup of pale ale before I wander over to the couch and collapse. I can’t remember the last time I drank this much and the thrumming in my head doesn’t feel so hot.

  Drew belches as he drops into the armchair across from me. Finn sinks into the cushions to my right with a sigh of relief.

  “Thanks for coming over,” I say sincerely.

  “There’s no one I’d rather get shit-faced with than you two,” Drew says. “Unless Zoe Saldana is available. Then forget you guys.”

  Finn taps my knee with his. “How’s the temporary fix working?”

  “Better than your face,” I tell him.

  “I keep telling him his face is messed up,” Drew pipes in.

  “You’re just jealous I have more Instagram followers than you.”

  “That’s because your wife knows how to use the right filters.”

  “Can we focus on me here, please?” I ask, giving my brothers what they both really want. A chance to extol their wisdom. (I secretly want that, too, but it’s damn hard asking for it. As the oldest, I’ve always felt a responsibility to look out for my younger brothers, not the other way around.)

  “You started with the insults.” Drew’s got me there. “Smack talk aside, haven’t we been focused on you?”

  “I need you to do a better job.”

  “We need you to quit beating yourself up,” Finn says. “Bottom line is you didn’t mean any harm.”

  “I obviously didn’t mean to be nice either.”

  “It’s not your job to be nice to every girl who fancies you,” Drew says, getting more comfortable by throwing a leg over the arm of the chair.

  “Fancies me? You’ve been hanging around Grandma Rosemary too long.”

  “I’d tell you about it but we’re focusing on you.”

  “The point here is…” Finn says—who for the record is the nicest out of the three of us, “…there’s more going on with Sydney than we know about and so in a way this is a blessing.”

  “I’m going to make sure she gets any help she might need,” I say.

  “We know you will, but I suggest you keep your distance, too.”

  “Plan to.” I rub the back of my neck. I imagine seeing me again would make her uncomfortable. “I’m not an asshole, am I?”

  “There’s a little asshole in all of us,” Drew deadpans.

  The three of us look at each other in complete silence for one second. Two seconds. Then we burst out laughing like that’s the funniest thing we’ve ever heard. It was pretty funny. Combined with the beer we’ve consumed it’s hysterical.

  “Leave it to you to make a butt joke,” I say.

  Drew grins and I see him at five years old, telling me joke after joke to get my attention. Well, shit. I am a prick sometimes.

  “There’s a bright side to this,” Finn says. “Everyone is safe. Including you, big brother. And there’s no need for you to have protection anymore.”

  “True,” I say, my stomach twisted in a knot. I hated the idea of a bodyguard and now I don’t want to give her up.

  “How long is Pascale sticking around?” Drew asks.

  “I don’t know. Hopefully long enough for me to find a new manager.”

  “No doubt,” Finn says. “She doesn’t strike me as the kind of person to just up and leave.”

  She did once before.

  “Uh-oh,” Drew says, studying me a little too carefully.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You like her,” he continues. “You really fucking like her again.”

  I scrub a hand over my jaw. “Yeah, I do.” Shit. I meant to deny it, but obviously my brain on booze is like truth serum.

  A truth I want to go after. Pascale got away once before, but not this time.

  Chapter Twelve

  You Had Me at Hello

  Pascale

  Ethan opens his front door wearing black lounge pants and a dark green T-shirt. His feet are bare. His hair is standing up in sexy disarray and stubble lines his square jaw. “Hi,” he says.

  That his all-day hangover looks this good should be impossible.

  “Hi. Special delivery.” I hold up the food Louis prepared for him and the Airplane! DVD I’ve had in my stash for the past ten years. ‘Stash’ really isn’t the right word. More like I keep it in my sock drawer since I watch it probably once a year. “Hope it’s not too late that I’m here.”

  “You can show up on my doorstep anytime. Come on in.”

  I step over the threshold into his house and get a whiff of soap and man that does things to my insides no other man’s scent has done. It’s a weird mix of butterflies and tranquility, and I don’t exactly know what to do with it, but I do suddenly picture him in the shower with rivulets of water running down his broad chest and flat stomach to his—

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he says softly near my ear, breaking the very nice visual.

  “Me, too.” When Ethan texted this morning to say he was hungover and staying home for the day, the first seeds of a late-night movie with food delivery planted themselves in my mind. We texted a few more times after that. He asked about the happenings at Royal. I asked how he was feeling about things. He told me his lawyer had taken care of everything with Sydney and no criminal charges were being
made. Instead, his team was arranging some charity work for her with troubled teens, and footing the bill for counseling. The tone of his texts was mostly upbeat, but I sensed lingering guilt.

  Food + movie + me (I hope) = improved mood.

  His house is everything I imagined it to be. Spacious with high ceilings, dark wood, and heavy furniture. The white walls are covered with beautiful artwork all the way to the kitchen. He pulls out a barstool at the kitchen island for me to sit on. His good manners never fail to charm me.

  “Louis assured me this would make you feel better,” I say, placing the takeout on the counter.

  Ethan lifts the box lid and peeks inside. “Roasted red pepper pesto penne. It’s one of my favorites. Thanks for bringing it over. You want to share?”

  “I’ll have a bite.”

  He grabs two forks, hands one over, then stands kitty-corner to me against the counter. He offers me the first taste. I take a forkful and slide the box toward him.

  “Ohmigod, that’s good.”

  Ethan agrees with a nod before digging in. We pass the pasta back and forth. “One bite, huh?” he says unselfishly.

  I shrug. “I was hungrier than I thought.”

  We finish every last bite in relaxed silence before Ethan says, “Come on. Let’s watch the movie and I’ll rub your back.” He takes my hand and leads me to the family room as if I’d ever refuse a backrub. He knows how much I like them.

  A funny feeling invades my chest. I came here tonight to make him feel better and he’s offering to do something that makes me feel good.

  “Have a seat.” He takes the movie and puts it in the DVD player.

  I plop down on the couch, toe off my heels. Ethan acts like this is the most natural thing in the world, the two of us watching a movie on a Friday night on his very comfortable couch in his beautiful home, the sound of the ocean in the distance. So, I act that way, too.

  Because it is. It’s always been easy between us.