Technically, I work for West. But Rob owns half of the company, and so, for all intents and purposes, he’s my boss as well.
“God, it’s miserable outside,” Rob grumbles. Drops of water cling to his dark hair. He looks at the table I’ve claimed right next to the fireplace and sighs appreciatively, his ocean blue eyes losing their customary hard edge. “Thank fuck. Well done, Mel.”
Praise from Rob is a rare thing. Warmth blooms inside me, but I push it away. I’m still annoyed with them. “You’re English. Aren’t you supposed to be used to the rain?”
He settles himself next to West and stretches his legs out. “There’s a reason I don’t live in London anymore, Amelia.”
A woman walks past us. She's wearing black pants and a white silk blouse, her hair swept back in a loose chignon. She’s got the effortless air of elegance that the French do so well. She moves past our table, eyeing Rob and West for a second too long, and then she gives me an approving smile. Nicely done, her expression seems to say.
Ha. As if.
I take another sip of the excellent wine and survey my bosses with mild exasperation. My plan for the evening was to drink my wine and think hard thoughts about people—West and Rob—who should have listened to my advice but didn’t. Them being here is getting in the way of that. “West was just about to tell me what he’s doing here.”
“I came to apologize,” West replies. He meets my gaze directly. In the dim light of the bar, his eyes look almost hypnotic. “And to say you were right. You told us to fire Pierre. More than once, if I remember correctly. We should have listened to you before the situation blew up in our faces. The drink is a peace offering.”
I think back to his opening words. “You said, ‘Go ahead. Say it.’ Say what?”
“I told you so. I assume you’ve been biting your tongue the whole day.”
Startled as all hell, I laugh out loud. I didn't think I would get fired for the Pierre Gilbert disaster because whatever else Weston Fontaine and Robert Yarrow are, they’re not unfair. Regardless, this had been a very expensive debacle, and I thought that, at the very least, they’d be cranky.
But here they are. Not cranky. And remarkably even-tempered, all things considered.
“I thought you might be annoyed,” I tell them.
“With Pierre, yes,” Rob replies. “With you, no.” He gives me a crooked smile. “You are very good at your job, Mel. When you told us to get rid of him, we should have listened.”
I’ve worked in the corporate office of F&Y for five years and worked directly for West for two. In that time, I’ve learned something. Robert Yarrow has a great poker face, but he has one tell. He only calls me Mel when he’s in a good mood.
Go ahead, West had invited. Say it. I grin at the man across from me. The one and a half glasses of red wine I’ve drunk loosen my tongue. “Since you insist,” I tell him. “I told you to fire Pierre.”
“That’s it?” West lifts one eyebrow. “I thought you’d have more to say.” His lips twitch. “You’re so rarely shy about expressing your opinion, Mel. Why start now?”
Flipping him off is probably a bad idea. “I had a whole indignant speech prepared,” I tell him airily. “But this is a very nice glass of wine, so I’ll let it go.”
Rob laughs and starts to get up. “We shouldn't keep you,” he says. Rob’s lived in New York for eight years and has mostly lost his English accent. It’s only when he’s tired that traces of it come out. “We’re interrupting your evening.”
It’s been a long day, and I’m jet-lagged and exhausted. My body has no idea what time zone I’m in. I’m in a bar in Paris, I don’t have a grievance to nurse anymore, and because of that, I find I don’t want to drink alone.
“You could stay,” I suggest.
Robert tilts his head to one side. “It’s very good wine,” I hasten to add. “But I can’t possibly drink the entire bottle by myself.”
West started to get up as well. He considers my words for a moment and then smiles. “It is very good wine,” he agrees. “It would be a shame to waste it. Rob, you staying, or do you have a date?”
“What?” Rob’s head snaps up. “I flew into Paris sixteen hours ago. We went directly to the Fontaine hotel, and I've been there, with you, dealing with this mess. When exactly would I have time to set up a date?”
West’s eyes flash with amusement. “I don't know how you do it,” he says. “You just do. It’s impressive.”
“I hate to disappoint you,” Rob replies dryly. “But I have no plans for the evening. I'll be happy to take you up on your offer, Mel, but you're going to have to split the bottle with West.”
“You don't like red wine?” Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen him drink it.
“I like it well enough. It doesn’t like me back. Makes me break out in hives.”
West lifts his hand up and catches the waitress’s eye. She immediately beams and hurries over. Of course she does. “Could I get an empty wineglass, please?” he asks in fluent French.
“And a Scotch, please,” Rob adds. Also in French, but his pronunciation makes the waitress wince a little. She switches to English and lists the Scotch options. Rob picks one, and we’re alone again.