Page 134 of Levi
“You’re still suing her, right?” I ask.
“I intend on giving that bitch a little of her own medicine. I’m suing her for defamation.” My girl made the decision last night, but I’m glad she’s standing firm.
“Even if you don’t get a dime out of it since she’s penniless now that her boyfriend stole the profits from the sale of the house, watching her sweat will be reward enough.”
“Damn right,” Jules agrees. “On the flipside, her little one-woman show was a coup.” Jules is being facetious. “I always knew she was a fraud.”
Hillary’s fifteen minutes of fame is paying dividends. She was intent on playing the victim at all cost, she forgot she has a shady past. She’s been dodging her creditors and people she owes money to for years, moving around to keep a low profile. Now they know exactly where to find her.
“I always had my suspicions about the duke, but I didn’t expect him to be a fraud as well,” Jules says.
I cock an eyebrow. “Birds of a feather...”
“They deserve each other,” she nods in agreement.
Duke Florian skipped town when the media scrutiny became too much. He crossed the border and scampered off to his hometown. Here’s the kicker, Duke Florian Thauvin de la Poutaille isn’t a duke after all. His real name is Jersey Trudeau, and he was born in Chicoutimi, Quebec. Not France. Surprise, surprise, he doesn’t have any ties to the future king of France because there is no fucking future king of France. Hillary should’ve been smart enough to do a Google search. The con artist is forty-one. Since he was never able to cut it in Hollywood, he’s been using his acting skills to prey on widows seeking the company of a handsome man. Hillary fell for it. It’s been a very lucrative career for Jersey. Case in point, his relationship with Hillary wasn’t about her sparkling personality or kind heart. To avoid waving a red flag by depositing a huge amount of money in her account, Hillary used one of Jersey’s offshore accounts. I don’t have to tell you how that story ends.
“Just like we deserve each other,” I piggyback on her statement.
Jules gets up from where she’s sitting, circles the table and comes to sit on my lap.
“I love hearing you say that,” she murmurs low, grabbing the front of my t-shirt and bunching it in her hand. She clasps her free hand behind my head, forcing my lips to hers.
Her grumbling stomach interrupts our heated kiss.
“Oh, shit. Talk about bad timing,” she complains before biting her lower lip.
I chuckle.
“Why don’t I feed you before you pass out on me?” I say, standing up with her in my arms.
“I’ll come and help,” she offers.
“Nah. I’m okay,” I drop her to her feet. “You stay out here and soak in the sun. While you were sleeping, I ran to the bakery and practically raided the place. I did the same to the little shop that sells quiches.”
Her laughter follows me as I stalk towards the kitchen.
It only takes a few trips back and forth before I have a scrumptious feast laid out on the table. There’s a reason I woke up so early.
Jules’s stunned gaze bounces from mine to the spread. “This is a very fancy breakfast,” she says, fixing her eyes on me.
“My queen deserves it,” I respond with a ceremonious bow. “The next three days are all about you, sweetness.”
Her attention moves to the table for a beat. Questioning eyes meet mine. “You even bought pale pink dahlias.”
“They’re your favorite,” I state.
“They are.” Her voice is hesitant.
I snap my fingers together. “I forgot something.”
“You’re full of surprises this morning, Mr. Aldridge,” she shouts over my shoulder.
If she only knew.
With rushed steps, I enter the kitchen and head to the pantry. I part boxes of cereal until I find what I’m looking for. I hid a little surprise in the last place she’d look. I tuck the small box in the back pocket of my shorts, a sly grin tugging my lips. I hurry to the refrigerator and grab a box containing a small cake. I plate it and place it on a tray. I pull out two mini bottles of champagne from the fridge and flank the plate with them. I grab a couple of straws instead of flutes. Her inquisitive eyes are on me as I walk back on the deck.
“Cake? Champagne? For breakfast?” she questions. “Haven’t we celebrated enough?”
