“It’s my job to help you cope with what happened to you and come out healthy on the other side. You’re not broken, Garrett. You’re hurt and you have every right to be hurt. You suffered unimaginable things.”
“I survived.”
“Yes,” he says as he leans forward and stares directly into my eyes. “Yes, you did. Without breaking and without giving your captors anything to use against Wildemar. You have more than done your duty to your country. Now it’s time to give yourself a little of the same consideration you have always given Wildermar.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“I know you don’t. Maybe it’s time you found out.”
I sink back onto the sofa, my mind racing with everything he’s thrown at me this week. “How?”
“Only you can answer that, but I can help you start. What’s one thing you want—besides the throne?”
“I don’t know.”
“It doesn’t have to be big. It can be me getting the hell out of this room and leaving you alone. Don’t think too hard about it. Just spit it out. Name one thing you want, right now. Just one—”
“Lola.” Her name comes out of nowhere and I’m not sure who’s more surprised—Michael or me.
“Who’s Lola?” he asks.
“A woman I met a couple of days ago.”
“And you’re interested in her?” He sounds cautious, but more optimistic than he was a couple of minutes ago.
“I’m intrigued by her.”
Michael lifts a brow. “Intrigued sounds like a good place to start.”
I think about his words for a second, then think about how Lola had me smiling on the phone this morning before she had to take her work call. “It really does, doesn’t it?”
Chapter 7
Lola
“How much is this Yves Saint Laurent dress?” the blond woman in front of me asks.
“The Yves Saint Laurent is marked at two hundred euros,” the executor of the estate sale responds, without looking up from the computer in front of him.
“And the matching coat? How much is that?”
“Three hundred and fifty euros.”
“I’ll take it,” she tells him, reaching into her purse, and I feel my head about to explode. It’s one thing to find a deal because the person selling is too stupid to know what he’s got on his hands. It’s another thing to lie about it altogether.
“That isn’t Yves Saint Laurent,” I say as I crowd closer to the antique table he’s working from. “And neither is the coat. Both pieces are vintage Chanel, and you’ve got them marked at four-fifty and six-fifty respectively. Which is a steal.”
“She’s wrong. They’re definitely YSL,” the woman trills at him. Then she turns to me and hisses under her breath, “Shut up! You’re ruining everything!”
“No shit,” I answer, shaking my head incredulously. “I’m trying to ruin everything. You’re trying to pass off vintage Chanel as ready-to-wear Yves Saint Laurent and that gives all of us a bad name, so…”
“Why is it your business anyway?” she demands, looking me up and down in a way that’s meant to convey just how unimpressed she is with my ripped jeans and faded Aerosmith T-shirt.
“It’s my business because I hate liars almost as much as I hate cheats. And because I’m a big fan of vintage Chanel.” I turn to the man and slap a pile of cash down on the table in front of him. “I’ll give you seven thousand euros for everything in the closet.”
“You can’t do that!” the woman squawks, but I ignore her as I quirk a brow and wait for the sale executor to make up his mind.
“The contents of the closet are currently priced at four times that,” he says, scrolling through what I assume is an itemized list of all the goodies in the big, beautiful wardrobe.