“Yes!” She nods curtly, lifting her gown as she stomps through the wet grass. We exit the back of the chateau, rounding to the carport in front.
“I’d say I told you so—” I break off at the murder in her eyes.
“Don’t. Not one word.” She holds up a finger, warding me off.
I lift my palms in front of me, “Okay. Okay. But we do have one more ball to attend before we leave Paris. Maybe you’ll find a real prince then.”
“The Cotillion?” She sighs, falling back into the plush leather seat of my hired Bentley, as the chauffeur opens her door.
“Yes. I don’t want to go either. But we must. The contacts we’ll make there will be good for the foundation.”
“Fine. But I’ll admit you were right. I was being fanciful, earlier… wishing for things that will never happen to me. I won’t get carried away at the next ball.”
“Good. I need you focused. You’re doing a hell of a job for me.”
Her phone pings like it’s short-circuiting.
“Holy hell!” She presses her hands to her face.
“What is it?” I take her phone. Pictures of her with both me and Dimitri fill the screen. The tabloids have their fill of photos. One even got a blurry one of her and the infamous kiss with him. Then there’s a picture of us by the garden when she stumbled, and I went to steady her. But it was snapped in a way that looks as if I’m about to haul her into my arms for a kiss.
“It could be worse. Fix it. That’s what PR guru’s do.” I smirk, raising an eyebrow.
“Ugh. Sometimes I hate you!”
“Dimitri was right. You are so much like her.”
“Jessie?”
“Yes,” I reply, looking out into the city lights of Paris, wishing I was here with her tonight.
“I’d like to meet her.”
“Maybe you will…someday.”
