She’d been blind to her needs and feelings too long, but she was paying attention now. That part of her life was over, and in this next part, she’d be putting one person first—herself. She wasn’t sure where she was going or what she wanted, but it would be on her terms.
When had she known it was over with Johnny? Perhaps it was when she’d sat in Beau’s lap and told him she loved him, the words falling out of her mouth, slippery and dangerous. Maybe it’d been even earlier than that, when she’d made that phone call to Beau in the middle of the night, or when she’d gotten into his limo the second time. But when had it all started?
“I knew we were in trouble when I realized you were considering Beau’s offer. I trusted you a little less. I need to know I’m more important to the man I’m with than anything else.”
“But you are the most important thing,” he said. “I love you.”
Lola went to the kitchen. She found the package of cash Beau’d left on the counter the night before. It was unopened with her and Johnny’s camping picture still sitting on top. She dumped it into her bag with the rest of the million dollars. She left the photo. She left the apartment. She didn’t stop to check if Johnny was all right—because she left that part of herself behind too.
6
Beau rolled his neck until he got a satisfying crack. The elevator beeped with each floor it passed, the digital numbers ticking down. It’d been a long day of slicing through the usual bullshit red tape that came with his line of work. He counted his meeting with Churchill a success, and he’d put out a fire at work while simultaneously closing a deal, but his duties weren’t over yet. His assistant had sent him back to the hotel at four to change for some event tonight, one he didn’t even remember committing to. He’d lost track of how many hours had passed since he’d slept. Over twenty-four. Lola had been gone around twelve. He was lucky to be standing.
The doors split apart. He exited, turned the corner on his way to meet Brigitte and ran right into Heather the concierge. She dropped a folder of papers that scattered on the lobby floor.
“Oh, shit,” she said, crouching. “I’m so sorry.”
Beau also squatted to help her as people passed around them. “My fault. I wasn’t watching. Where are you off to in such a rush?”
She smiled at the floor. “As soon as I get these to the back office, I’m done for the night. I worked a double shift. I need a drink.”
“I see.” Beau glanced up and handed her the papers he’d gathered. He could guess what was coming.
“I was just going to grab one here if you’re interested,” she said, pointing in the direction of the lounge.
Blowing off whatever event he was going to didn’t sound like such a bad idea, but Brigitte and Warner were waiting out front. “I have somewhere to be, and I won’t be back until after ten.” He stood, brushing off his pants. “I should get going, actually.”
“Well,” Heather said as she also rose, running a hand through her hair, “that’s only a few hours. I don’t mind waiting—”
Beau did a double take at the mirror over Heather’s shoulder. In the reflection, just as the elevator behind him closed, he caught a flash of dark hair, a stark-white dress. His gut lurched—Lola. He jerked around a second too late. The doors had shut.
He blinked. It couldn’t have been her. It didn’t make sense. Lola had no reason to be at that hotel unless it was to see Beau, and in order to get to the elevator, she would’ve walked right by him.
Beau blinked and looked back at Heather. “You said you’ve been at the front desk all day?”
She nodded earnestly.
“Did a woman named Lola check in? Black hair, blue eyes.”
Heather grinned and swatted his arm. “Do you have any idea how many people come through this lobby a day? I couldn’t possibly remember—”
“Try,” he said. “Lola Winters. It’s important.”
Her smile fell. “Um. Doesn’t sound familiar?”
Beau looked behind him and stared at the elevator, willing the doors to reopen. The numbers above it rose until stopping at eleven. He waited. After a brief pause, they began counting down again. If she were there to see him, she would’ve gone to Beau’s room, which was on the sixteenth floor.
Beau rubbed his eyes. All day, they’d been burning with fatigue. He needed sleep, and that was the only explanation for his confusion. He hadn’t even napped, not that he would’ve if he had the time. The last time he’d taken a nap was between shifts when he was in his twenties—and he was no longer that kid. He’d made damn well sure of it.
“Mr. Olivier?”
He looked at Heather. “What?”
“I asked if you’d like me to go see about your friend.”
“Oh. No.” He checked his watch. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve got to run.”
“What about the drink?”
“Can’t.” Beau stepped around her. “Night, Heather.”
Out front, Brigitte leaned against Warner’s town car in a short, red dress. Through the dusk, a tiny orange light buzzed around her like a fly. For all intents and purposes, Brigitte was his sister, more family to him than his own mother. For that reason, her risqué attire had no effect on him, but Beau wasn’t sure the same could be said for Warner. He didn’t even notice Beau walking in their direction.
As soon as she spotted Beau, her back straightened. “There you are.” Her French accent made it sound less accusatory. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”
Beau silently thanked his assistant for keeping Brigitte at bay all day. “My phone is in pieces. I had to get a new one.”
“Oh. Sounds positively sordid. I want all the details from last night.”
“I’m not in the mood, Brigitte.”
She arched a thin, manicured—and angry—eyebrow. “Not in the mood?” she repeated. “Ten years you’ve been sulking over this woman who fucked you over. And now that you’ve gotten your revenge, you’re not in the mood to share? I thought you’d be bursting at the seams.”
“I’m not.” He eyed Warner. “Thanks for keeping her company.”
“My pleasure, sir. Good evening.”
“We’re headed to the Los Angeles Athletic Club for an event.”