Page 33 of Crown of Thorns
“Yes?”
“It’s just…” Dad shrugs. “I get the feeling that not every member of the board agrees. Hiring Noah was part of the initiative, and everyone was with me. But, I don’t know, Son, it’s not always easy to get unanimity on ideas. Anyway, I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“Have you talked with Arthur?”
“No. He's got enough on his mind right now. Making decisions that will change his life. And you know what he’s like. He feels the need to carry the world on his shoulders.”
Yeah, I know what he's like.
“What about Régis?”
Dad simply huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Let them figure out their things together first.”
I let that one slip, because that’s a whole different topic. One that intrigues me tremendously.
A cork pops, and I jolt. Laughter follows.
“I never thought I’d live the day Louis would be scared off by champagne,” Arthur jokes, ignoring the content that sprays all over the lawn, before he puts it to his lips.
Family arrives through the communal gardens. Gaël is entirely dressed in a shiny, silver suit, his hair slicked back and his eyes painted in black. Show-off. Always starving for attention like a peacock in heat.
I give him a critical once-over. “What the hell are you wearing?”
“You like it?” He poses for me, shaking his hips and ending with a bow. “Dior contacted me, asked if I wanted to showcase their new collection. There’s a photographer here somewhere, but I told her only to stay for the first hour. Wouldn’t want to show what goes on here after a few drinks.”
“Poor Dominique,” Dad mutters. "How does that boy survive him?”
“Not our problem.” We must all accept the consequences of our own decisions. Like me, I gracefully excuse myself while I slip out my phone. Atutor. I’m buzzing with excitement over Dad’s news.
Following our private path to take myself to the beach and to some privacy, I ignore gawking tourists.
I call Noah twice, three times, pacing the shore like a caged animal, my thumb twitching over the screen. He finally picks up. A door clicks shut on his end.
“Hello?”
“Hello to you, too. Finally. Merry Christmas, baby. I was beginning to believe you had booked a last-minute trip to the North Pole with no internet connection. Do you even know how many messages I’ve sent?”
He sighs.
“And…?”
“And what, Louis?”
“Have you at least read them?”
“You know I have.” His voice is soft.
Fucking victorious.
“I love your texts,” I add.
“I haven’t sent you a single one.”
“I wish you did.” Because my stomach swoops dangerously at the sound of his smoky timbre.
“That’s not going to happen, Louis. I’m your professor. We’re not friends.”
“Then tell me, Professor, am I the first guy you ever threatened with a knife? Or just the first one who begged you to do it again?”
