Legal sent me a revised document for the Leclerc & Co. contract they’d like me to review by the end of the day. My father has already given his input. I read through it in my room, watching the sunrise, before I change and head down for a swim. Though the lake beckons, I choose the lap pool. As expected, I’m the only one crazy enough to be out here so early, and the water is ice cold as I slip in. After a slow warm-up, I swim laps until my arms ache and my chest screams for reprieve.
I feel more myself as I head back upstairs so I can shower and catch the tail end of breakfast.
It’s already a full house when I arrive in the breakfast room, and I’ve barely taken my seat after visiting the buffet before I’m surrounded by guests I’m barely acquainted with. In fact, I’m lifting a fork laden with zucchini frittata to my mouth when a hand shoots in front of my face.
“Will Johansson. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
I lift my annoyed gaze to him and let his hand dangle there between us.
His confidence wanes. “We met last year at the Notre Dame fundraiser, though you might not remember me…”
I don’t.
There’s already someone speaking over him, introducing themselves too. “Archer Glines. It’s an honor to make your acquaintance. Our fathers attended École Polytechnique together. I’ve heard some of the stories. The way I hear it, the two of them were extremely close.”
They weren’t.
“Florence Carmichael. Lady Florence Carmichael, actually. My father is Viscount Carmichael. I think you might know him?”
Oh for God’s sake.
It continues on like this so that by the time I’ve endured over a dozen introductions, my food has gone cold. I settle for a French pâtisserie and a cup of coffee and take my unread Le Figaro with me on my way out.
I loop around the entire villa before I find Lainey resting on a cushioned lounge chair down near the water’s edge. She’s wearing a black two-piece set composed of a long-sleeved cropped blouse and high-waisted trousers with a sliver of her waist peeking through intentionally. Light tan sandals twist and tie around her slender ankles. Toss a bag at her hip and she could be a model for one of our brands, especially with Lake Como in the background. Our customers would bankrupt themselves trying to emulate the same effortless elegance.
I claim ownership of the lounger beside her by tossing down my newspaper.
She doesn’t bat an eye. Her attention stays rigidly set on her book.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
She was in the breakfast room when I arrived, eating beside Victor and her grandmother.
“I haven’t.”
“The moment I walked in for breakfast, you stood up with your half-eaten plate and left.”
She doesn’t look up. “Pure coincidence. I wouldn’t read into it.”
“Last night after dinner, you hurried out of the dining room before I could catch you.”
“My grandmother was waiting for me.”
She flips a page in her book as if it’s even remotely possible that she’s still reading while we talk. I know later she’ll have to turn back, wondering where the hell she actually left off.
“You won’t look me in the eye, even now.”
“Because I’m trying to read,” she says, exasperated as she lifts her hardback to wave it at me.
“Lainey.”
She sighs and sets it down, looking up at me with an unamused expression.
“I narrowly escaped disaster last night, and I’ve learned my lesson. We should just stay away from each other.”
Indignation burns in my chest. “Oh really? You think I’m a bad influence?”
“Clearly.”
“Why is it you can say that so confidently to me, but last night at dinner, you were quiet as a mouse?”
“We’ve gone over this before—I’m shy.”
“I can’t believe that. When it’s just you and me, you’re the exact opposite.”
She shrugs one shoulder. “So take it as a compliment and move on. Don’t you have someone else you can go bother?”
Ignoring her, I ask, “What book is that?”
“Ten Ways to Deal with Difficult People.”
“You’re joking.”
She rolls her eyes and lifts the book as her reply: No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy.
A favorite of mine.
“Have you read The Road?”
She gives me a pointed look as if to say, Are you really asking me that?
I take a seat on the lounge chair beside her and unfold my French newspaper. I’m making a point. She doesn’t need to worry; I can mind my business. Never mind that we’re almost elbow to elbow with the lounge chairs pushed so closely together. I can smell her shampoo on the gentle breeze. I’m attuned to her every subtle shift.
“Did you really have to sit right beside me like this? There are plenty of lounge chairs over there. And you know what?” She twists around and shields her eyes from the sun as if to study something. “I think I even see some beautiful women sunbathing by the pool. Oh, gosh, look at that—they need someone to help them apply sunblock. If only there were a person for the job…”