Page 94 of The Frog Prince
Ed listens quietly and then asks one question. “Is there someone else?”
“No.”
“You’re just not interested in me?”
“Not the way you want me to be.”
And Ed Hill stops calling.
*
It isn’t untilI’ve broken things off with Ed that I notice Olivia has actually relented, pulled back, no longer focuses on me with so much savage fury.
What changed?
Looking back, I realize she started easing up around the very same time I started dating Ed, and the closer I got to Ed, the nicer she became to me.
Coincidence? Or not?
ChapterSeventeen
The weeks pass,and April’s here.
I’m in the middle of hammering out the final details for Kid Fest, an annual event for disadvantaged kids and teens taking place later this month, when I’m summoned to the front by the City Events receptionist.
The only thing on my mind as I leave my desk is getting publicity for our Kid Fest sponsors. People who donate time, money, or material for charity events want their good deeds known. Not necessarily the most altruistic form of giving, but a fact of corporate American life. And I’m puzzling over how to get the media out for yet another nonprofit event when I round the corner and freeze.
No.Way.
Jean-Marc.
I very nearly turn around and run, but my legs won’t move and my chest feels tight and I just stare at him where he stands in the lobby, chatting away with our young receptionist.
I say nothing, but the smiling and blushing receptionist spots me and breaks off midsentence. Jean-Marc turns, looks toward me. I just look back.
He looks the same: tall, lean, sexy in that intense way European men have. He’s wearing old jeans that hug his narrow waist, and a dark gray cashmere V-neck sweater that hugs the hard planes of his chest, showing off taut pecs and chiseled abs, even as the deep V-neck plays up his arresting Gallic features.
He is and always has been disgustingly handsome. His hair, his pride and joy, is still a thick dark brown with that wave at the front that continues over the ears, and he has light brown eyes that in sunlight look almost golden.
I swear, the man used to stand in sunlight all the time.
“Cherie,” he says, moving toward me and clasping my shoulders and kissing me on each cheek. “Surprise!”
Yes, it is. And I can think of nothing to say.
“I was in the city to see friends and thought I’d stop by and say hello,” he continues, speaking in that deep voice that makes vowels and consonants sound sexy. Wicked. The French are so unfair.
“Hello,” I say shortly even as I find myself wondering when it was I last saw him, and realize it’s been close to a year. He was already bunking down at a friend’s the weekend I moved out…
Glancing past his shoulder, I see the office receptionist, a young intern from one of the local universities, craning her head, trying to listen.
“This is where you work?” he says, gesturing to the huge colorful event posters lining the enormous brick wall.
“Yes.”
“Interesting.”
“Mmmm.” I just don’t see any point in continuing this conversation. I mean, what are we supposed to say? Months ago I needed him, missed him… loved him. But now I feel only weariness and bits of regret. Not for him, but for the girl I used to be.