Page 8 of Marry Lies
“Je rencontre mon père. Il s’appelle Prescott Deveraux,” I tell her in perfect French, wondering if my father is already seated.
“Ah, right this way,” she responds in accented English.
I follow her through the bright and airy dining room, feeling completely out of place in my bright ensemble. Everyone here—every single person—is wearing a business suit. Even the women. Grays, dark browns, and black…My tall heels are causing my feet to ache, and I can’t wait to sit down. The hostess stops in front of a table with four chairs, and my eyes flick up to the single man already seated. I stare at him in confusion.
“Non, ce n’est pas la bonne table,” I tell her quickly, explaining that this isn’t my table.
“Stella Deveraux?” the man asks, standing up. “Your father invited us to lunch today. I hope that’s all right.”
I glance at the man in surprise. Something about him is vaguely familiar, like I’ve seen his face somewhere before. His black hair is tied back into a low ponytail, and despite being older, he’s very handsome. His accent is American.
“I’m Charles Ravage. Your father and I have become friends over the last couple of years,” he adds, holding his hand out.
I shake it firmly as I plaster on a smile. “Nice to meet you, Charles,” I say politely, tamping down the disappointment swirling in my gut. I’d been looking forward to a long lunch with my father, catching up, telling him about my business plans…
Another man comes to stand next to him, and my eyes dart over to the stranger.
Except…he’s not a stranger. Not at all.
A low, pleasant hum works through me as I make eye contact with the man from the fountain last year. The aggravatingly good-looking one with a piss poor personality.
The one I—unfortunately for me—haven’t stopped thinking about since we snogged like crazy in the taxi a year ago.
He looks exactly the same. Tall, with broad shoulders. A square jaw accented with day-old stubble, a long, straight nose, and the most intense green eyes I’ve ever seen. His dark brown hair is short on the sides, but the top is neatly styled to be modern and sophisticated. There’s not a strand out of place, in fact, and his straight, intense brows only pull closer together as he scrutinizes me. He’s wearing a double-breasted Gucci suit with a subtle checkered pattern, and my eyes catch on that same Cartier watch he was wearing last year. I can’t deny that the man has good style.
He notices me watching him, and he raises one brow conspiratorially.
God. It should really be illegal for a person to look this good.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Charles mutter something to him, and it takes me a second to realize that Fountain Man will be joining us for lunch. I turn to face him fully just as Charles introduces us.
“Stella, this is my son, Miles Ravage,” he says smoothly. “Miles, this is Estelle Deveraux. Her father, Prescott Deveraux, has become a dear friend and client of mine.”
My eyes flick to Miles again, and I hate that my stomach does a little flip as we make eye contact. He holds his hand out, and I take it. His skin is warm, the pads of his fingers rough for someone who probably spends all day behind a desk.
God, I remember how those hands felt on my back, my thighs, running against my lower stomach before diving below the band of my joggers—
He grips my hand tightly, so I do the same. Something akin to surprise flashes across his features at my firm handshake.Ha.
“So nice to meet you,” I say sweetly.
“The pleasure is all mine, Estelle,” he replies smoothly, not mentioning that we’ve met before.
Thank god.
“It’s Stella.”
“Of course,” he says, tipping his head in apology before gesturing that I sit down beside him.
Fucking great.
I smooth my dress, cross my ankles, and place my hands in my lap.Someone needs to swoop in and unalive me.Not only did I humiliate myself last year by jumping his bones like a mad woman, but now I’m sitting here with his father. I close my eyes when I think of the way he murmured dirty things into my ear in the back of that taxi. The hard, thick length I wrapped my fingers around briefly over his pants.
Fuck.
I never expected to see him again. And by the way he’s looking at me with a glowering, accusatory stare…I’m guessing he never expected to see me again, either.
“So, Stella,” Charles starts, sitting across from me. “Your father says you are starting your own fashion line?”
