Page 24 of Xander

“That won’t be necessary,” Xander replied firmly on my behalf.

I glanced at Xander quizzically, only to find him already watching me. His generous lips thinned, the muscles in his strong jaw clenching. I got the impression he didn’t like whatever was happening at our table.

“Are you sure?” the other man pressed.

“Yes,” Xander snapped in a voice that sounded very much like fuck off.

“Um—”

“Make sure no one else disturbs us again,” he said dismissively. “We’re having a private conversation.” The insinuation in his tone made private sound like an intimate conversation between lovers.

Christ.

Outwardly, Xander was the golden boy with impeccable manners. No one would believe how quickly his mood could sullen, and I was flailing to keep up.

“Eat,” he ordered as the chef slinked away. His voice was a harsh burr in the soothing atmosphere that no longer felt quite so relaxing.

I wanted to ask what brought on the change, but in the end, I let it go. The waters remained as muddled as they had been in the past, where good vibes could deplete in the blink of an eye. I didn’t want to rock the boat and munched on a cracker.

Desperate to fill the awkward silence, I offered, “I had a chance to review your PR contract.”

“I see he put you to work already.” Xander was referring to Henry. It was odd he never acknowledged Henry as his father; I’d love for them to reconcile one day.

I shrugged. “I like my work. I never wanted to be a trophy wife. I just wanted—” someone to love me. “Work is fulfilling,” I said instead. “Tell me what kind of branding you’re looking to do.”

We discussed endorsement opportunities for the rest of lunch, though the conversation inevitably turned deep as it always did with Xander. He was easy to talk to, with a solemnity beneath the charm that reminded me of a deep, dark well. An old soul, I supposed.

Henry didn’t care for wisdom or in-depth conversations. We conversed superficially, and I taught myself to smile until I could half convince myself that what I was feeling was happiness. I lived the lie I sold to my clients, but it was still a lie, regardless.

“Earlier, you said Paris was the last place you were happy. You aren’t happy now?” He stared at me for a few beats, assessing my reaction to the question.

I sighed. “We can’t be happy at all times of the day, can we?” I took an aggressively long sip of my drink, flushing when it all went to my head. “For now, I’m grateful for my clients and for a beautiful home. Someday soon, I hope to have children, and then I can be happy knowing I earned everything I had dreamt of.”

“Happiness shouldn’t be earned.”

“Happiness is an indulgence.” I finished what remained of my cocktail.

His brows came down as he watched me push my empty glass aside. “Another one of these.” Xander tapped my glass, and I realized that the waitress had sneaked up on us to check in, only to be shooed away with another one of his neat little dismissals.

My second French 75 arrived, smelling of flower fields. And then, when I finished that, a third one. The alcohol gnawed away at the edges of the tension I hadn’t even admitted to myself that I was carrying.

He watched me in that strangely intense way of his. “You’re being quiet,” he commented.

I peeked at him, realizing my heavy soul had stilted the conversation. He must’ve picked up on it.

When I didn’t respond, he motioned at the couple across the room. I followed his gaze. “What’s their story?” he asked.

Without missing a beat, I replied, “She is working her way through college, and he is robbing the cradle.”

He laughed, eyes scrolling through the club for more victims. “How about them?” He nodded at a young couple two tables down.

“Hm. Some sort of new romance. Maybe a first or second date. Look at how much the poor guy is fidgeting.” On cue, the man fumbled and dropped his phone. We both laughed.

We continued the charade as other patrons not-so-discreetly took photos of us. Our glasses were topped off until I felt pleasantly buzzed and unwound.

When I wobbled on our walk back to the car, he asked, “Are you okay?”

“Enough to dance to Madonna in these heels,” I informed, slightly slurring my speech.