‘In pleather?’ He pulls a face.
I smile. ‘For Paris.’
Kevin’s businesslike once more. ‘He’s in Tokyo at the trade fair.’ I swear under my breath and his thick dark brows shoot towards his hairline. ‘What’s going on? You’re usually out the door at the mere mention of Paris.’
Kevin, who’s worked for me for seven years, knows me better than almost anyone, and he’s completely right. Give me even half an opportunity to visit the French capital and I’m there. Paris is my soul city.
But a meeting with our production manager and warehouse team is going to take me away from New York—more specifically from Theo—and the plans we’ve made for tonight. ‘Yeah, I know.’
‘So?’ he insists and I feel like my secret is in danger of slipping, so I overcompensate.
‘Nothing. I just had something on with Joshua.’
‘It’s not in my calendar.’
‘I know. Believe it or not, I do make plans without involving you.’
He stares at me sceptically.
‘Some of the time, I make plans without involving you.’
‘Well, maybe you shouldn’t because this is what happens when I don’t have full access to your diary. I’ve told them you’ll be in tonight, babe.’
I wince, knowing there’s no way I can get out of it. More than that, I daren’t even try. I have made Fleurs Sauvages the global name it is, I have worked twenty hours a day for months at a time, several times a year, to keep us relevant, to ensure the brand’s success. But failure is always only one step away, and I have no intention of failing. I have no intention of letting my dad think he was right about me, that this was too much for me, that I can’t handle it.
I fix Kevin with a determined stare and nod. ‘Fine. I can leave in a few hours.’
He airdrops something to my phone. ‘Already booked your ticket.’
I stare at the first-class seat he’s reserved, my tummy dropping down to my ankles. It’s only been a matter of days—not weeks—since I went to Theo’s office and surprised him mid-conference call but despite that my body is incinerating with need.
It’s not that I miss him, nothing so schmaltzy as that. I just want him on a physical level. I need him, like I need to drink water or eat lunch. It’s a physical itch that only he can sufficiently scratch.
Still, there’s nothing for it.
I lift my phone out and start to type a message, then delete it. Everything sounds so formal. Instead, I send him a GIF: a picture of a woman shaking her head in the rain. I caption it:
Rain check tonight. Something came up.
I reread the message, pleased with how unconcerned I sound, then send it.
His response is instant.
You’d better believe something ‘came up’. Me. Now. No rain checks.
My heart squeezes.
Sorry, can’t help it. I have to go to Paris. It’s important.
He doesn’t reply.
I wonder at the
growing sense of disappointment gnawing its way through me. I triage my emails, then move to the wardrobe in the corner of my office, grabbing a few things out and packing them neatly into the suitcase I always keep stashed there, the distinctive ‘FS’ branding in shades of gold and cream denoting to the world that it’s one of our premiere luxury items.
I try not to think about Theo as I pack, but it’s impossible. My body aches for him, so every movement makes me hyper-aware of the fact it’s been far too long since he touched me. I fold silk blouses and pencil skirts and imagine his fingers running over the fabrics, removing them from me.
I slip into my private bathroom and freshen my make-up and hair, spritzing with my signature perfume that will now always remind me, in an unwelcome and strange way, of him.