7
Ididn’t know what to think about the story he’d just told me. It seemed crazy, fantastical. But every bone in my body knew he wasn’t lying. It was his eyes that did it. They flashed bright blue fury when he talked about his father and their relationship that seemed to be alternately positive and adversarial. They glowed with mirth and warmth when he mentioned his mother. And they welled slightly, pools of sorrow, whenever Lucy came up. She had obviously meant a great deal to him.
I tried to ignore the pangs of jealousy when I thought of that. Not because they were lovers. They clearly weren’t. But even if he wasn’t in love with her, he certainly loved her in his own way. They were friends. And she had known him better than almost anyone.
Which also meant that I hadn’t really known him at all.
I led the way up Amsterdam toward the ramen restaurant where I used to slurp down noodles and broth while I worked out my next paper or tore through a new Victorian novel. Another life, another time. I hoped the noodles were still good.
“Cat got your tongue?” Xavier’s brooding timbre yanked me out of my thoughts.
My gaze jumped and landed on a pair of planters bookending an apartment entrance, both brimming with uncharacteristic winter blooms. “I was…thinking it’s nice to see flowers in December,” I fibbed. “Most of the time, the city is covered with snow and slush. There’s no color.”
“This is a camellia,” Xavier said, bending down to pluck one of the pink blossoms off the tree. “They were my mum’s favorite flower, actually. She used to keep pots of them on the fire escape.” He twirled the bloom from side to side. “They symbolize types of love. Red for passion. White for waiting. Pink is for…longing.”
It took every ounce of control not to check his face when he said that.
Instead, I accepted the flower and became inordinately interested in its rounded petals. “Are flowers important to your, um, people?”
Xavier snorted. “My people? I grew up in Croydon, Ces, not a hut in the Sahara.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. Just that—Xavi, when I met you, you said your name was Sato, not Parker. Clearly, you identify with your mom’s heritage. And isn’t there a whole thing about flowers and symbolism and all that in Japan?”
“Hanakotoba, yeah. But I don’t know much about it. Just what Mum told me. Like about these.”
He took the camellia out of my hand and tucked it behind my ear, his finger grazing my jaw, trailing to my chin, then dropping reluctantly. I shivered, but not from the cold.
“When did you start using Parker?” I asked. “Why not the Sato Group?”
The pride faded, replaced by annoyance again. “Ah, well. See, to expand the way I wanted, I needed investors. Turns out Parker—my dad’s name—opens a lot more English bankers’ doors than Sato.” He shrugged. “It’s nothing more than that.”
I wasn’t sure I believed him. “So you used your father’s name to get your business started?”
Xavier’s jaw clicked like he was grinding his teeth. “You really didn’t look me up at all after I left, did you?”
My cheeks colored, but I shook my head. “Once or twice. But Sato was a dead end. And after that…I was mad.”
“Mad?”
“Furious, actually.”
“Furious.”
I looked up. He was so tall; I had to crane my neck. “What do you want me to say? I understand what happened now, but at the time, all I knew was that you were engaged. You broke my heart. When someone does something like that, I generally don’t look back, if you know what I mean.”
His suspicion morphed into something approaching respect. “Yes, I do.”
“So what do I call you, then?” I wondered. “Sato or Parker?”
His lips pressed into a thin line. “Parker’s fine. I’ve made my peace with it.” Then he asked, “What about looking forward?”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Looking forward to what? Another week or two of sex? A life’s worth of one-night stands?
And then what?
Tell him.
My subconscious was a professor, tapping her nails on her arm, waiting for me to come up with the correct answer.