Holding hands?
That felt good.
He held my hand for the next hour, as we walked around downtown Montreal, admiring all the buildings, old and new. We stopped for lunch at a quaint cafe, and I had a half-caf latte in a cup Smith joked was as big as my head.
Smith insisted he wanted to talk about something besides the novel, but every conversation came back around to the novel.
I'd ask him about where in the world he'd traveled, and he'd mention a trip done as research for a novel.
I gave up on trying to steer the conversation, and let him carry on about Detective Dunham and his client Sheri. We talked about the two of them like they were old friends, their fictional love lives endless fuel for our gossip. I can't say I didn't enjoy this new intimacy.
After lunch, we continued to walk around, holding hands like teenagers.
Older couples with silver hair gave us happy smiles.
Women my age narrowed their eyes and looked me up and down in my pretty new dress.
And all the men who were Smith's age stared at my tits.
I was pleasantly surprised about the evening's plans. The concert wasn't some boring classical thing that only rich people appreciated, but the kind of music I actually liked.
We entered the lobby, and as I looked over the other attendees in their black leather and tattoos, I whispered to Smith, "I feel overdressed."
He put a possessive arm around my shoulder and kissed the side of my forehead. "Overdressed beats underdressed any day."
I rolled my eyes. "What do you know? You're a man. You look basically the same all the time."
A smirk curled his lips. "I'm wearing a jacket."
I slipped my arm under the jacket, the lining silky on my hand. "And you look delicious."
He grinned and stared at my lips, probably savoring the pleasant memory of me blowing him in the elevator hours earlier. He'd tried for another b**w j*b on the way home from our walking tour, but I'd refused, and then he'd pretended he didn't really want one after all. Yeah, right.
Because of the local liquor laws, we weren't allowed drinks inside the auditorium, so we practically chugged down two glasses of wine each in a VIP lounge.
I felt as wobbly as some of my new sex toys as we took our seats.
"Front row!" I exclaimed.
Smith looked embarrassed.
"Right." I shook my head. "Billionaire. I forget sometimes."
We'd been seated for a few minutes, Smith sitting to my right, when I felt my senses tingling. Someone I knew was nearby. I looked up, and my jaw dropped open.
Todd.
My ex-boyfriend.
Todd took his assigned seat next to me, not recognizing me. He had his new girlfriend with him, sitting on the other side of him. She had her face turned away, but I recognized her profile easily.
Rochelle.
The two of us had been in some theater productions at college together, where we'd become friends. By graduation, we'd spent countless hours together, studying, but mostly talking about boys … and girls.
I turned in my seat and hissed at Smith, "You did this, didn't you?"
He glanced over at Todd and Rochelle. "Oh, good. They made it. I wasn't sure if they'd buy the story that they won some raffle they didn't remember entering. People are so wary of schemes these days."
I folded in on myself, trying to disappear into my seat. What if Todd figured out the scheme that had brought him to sit next to me? He'd give me that look. He'd stare right into my eyes, and his face would say it: Tori, you're pathetic. Tori, you have no self-respect. How could you let someone treat you like a possession? No wonder I'm not enough for you. I'm just a regular guy. I'm nice, Tori. Nice.
Todd would say those words and give me that look, and I'd die.
If only the seat would swallow me whole, but it didn't. My armpits prickled as I floated on the line between awful reality and awful imagination. Tori, you're pathetic. My mouth went dry, my breathing shallow, and my muscles tensed.
Smith said, "Cheer up! This is supposed to be fun."
"Why would you do this?" I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to burn him with my fury. My anger felt good, and it was a step up from fear, so I clung to that red plume of rage like a lifeline.
Smith gave me his innocent look. "I thought you'd get a kick out of it."
"How so?"
He shrugged. "Isn't living well the best revenge? You guys broke up, and now you're dating a billionaire. When you get over yourself and finally say hello, be sure and mention my name. Don't blow your perfect opportunity."
"This is because I asked you about your wife, isn't it?"
"Ex-wife."
"What's her name?"
"Mrs. Wittingham."
"Why'd you split up?"
"She became crazy."
"You drove her crazy."
He winced. "More like tragic circumstances drove her crazy."