As the conversation turned to interpretive dance and conspiracy theories, I politely excused myself.
I stood, smiling like an idiot. “I’ll be back in a minute. I’m just going to check on the lobster with the chef. Last time heforgot to put it to sleep before it went into the pan, and I have no tolerance for animal cruelty.”
I looked at Sophie, wondering if she would mind if I disappeared, but she was still knee deep in conversation with Matteo.
I turned to exit, but Iris grabbed my hand, following me. “What are you doing?” I hissed.
She walked me up the bar, towards the bathrooms. “I could ask you the same thing.”
I stopped and shook my head. “What have I done?”
She chuckled. “I dread to think.” She met my blank stare with an eye roll. “Oh, come on, Chlo. Maxime. You and Maxime.”
I swallowed, lowering my voice. “There’s no me and Maxime.”
She narrowed her glared in mock annoyance. “I don’t believe that. He’s been looking at you.”
“That might have something to do with me being his daughter’s nanny. He does have to talk to me, you know?”
She scanned my face. “No. That doesn’t explain the whole simmering thing he was doing when you were talking about the club.”
“Simmering? What would that even look like?”
She pulled a pose—a scowl mixed with an eyebrow lift—and I had to hand it to her; it was a good impression.
I shrugged. “If that’s simmering, you’ve gone off the boil. You look like you’re constipated.” I eye rolled before moving off again, heading for the kitchen, but she caught my arm.
“Stop! Okay, he might not be at full simmer yet, but he’s definitely heating up.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “I’d say Maxime is maxing-out on you.”
I shook my head, not just at her poor attempt at a pun. It felt terrible to lie, but I couldn’t let her know how close to the mark she was. Not tonight.
She stepped closer. “You probably can’t see it, but he’s been watching you like a hawk about to swoop in and fly off with his prey.”
My skin prickled. “No, he hasn’t”.
“Oh yes, he has.And if you haven’t acted on it, you deserve a medal for self-control.”
I was about to ask her what she meant, but she waved her fingers at me and disappeared inside the bathroom.
I ran my hand through my damp hair, cursing the cheap cotton of my dress. But bathmats be damn, I was going to find my simmering boss and make sure he was okay.
I stuck my head through the kitchen door. The chef stood at the stove-top, cursing over a hot pan. His part-time kitchen assistant looked petrified as his boss flip-flopped between muttering and bellowing at the ingredients on the counter. Maybe great flavour was born out of weird behaviour, but when I asked if he’d seen Maxime, he nodded at the back door.
I stepped into the cool evening air and let out a breath. Even though I was technically standing in a back alley, compared to the heat of the club, the result was blissful.
And then my attention settled on something even more beautiful.
Maxime.
He stood in a single beam oflight, midges dancing in the air around him like mini-angels. His eyes were shut tight, his shirt unbuttoned, the tattoos contrasting hard against the glow of his skin.
I crossed the alley, coming to a stop in front of him. I couldn’t help myself, but I licked my lips. “Are you asleep?”
He didn’t move. “I’m listening to the waves.”
I reached out and touched his shirt. It was dry now. Maybe Iris was right about the simmering. Maybe the heat had turned him into a walking, talking clothes dryer.
“We missed you.” Well, maybe that was only me. “Are you okay?”
