And then… an arm was around my waist, and a hand was over my eyes.
His body pressed up behind me, and he growled into my ear, “Guess who.”
“Smith Fucking Wittingham,” I said. “How dare you make me worry you weren't coming?”
He'd already released me and was shaking my mother's hand. “I'm so glad we can finally meet,” he said. “Now I can see exactly where your daughter gets her gorgeous looks.”
My mother giggled like someone a third her age.
We all sat down, and I gave Claude and my mother a proper introduction.
Claude said, “My wife is looking forward to meeting you both. She had to catch a later flight, but she'll be here tomorrow.”
My mother looked from Claude to Smith and back again.
Smith explained that while Claude was his employee, and they didn't typically socialize together, he did give them a travel bonus every year. “They are only forced to eat one meal with me,” Smith said, winking. “Then they sight-see and do their own things, and I must make do with a lesser driver.”
My mother said, “But there are no cars in this village. And no drivers.”
“Exactly,” Smith said. “I could not possibly make do with a lesser option.” He gave me a flirty look, his sapphire blue eyes sparkling.
He continued to flirt with me all through dinner, and I was so nervous, I could barely choke down a few bites, delicious as the meal was.
My mother raved about the newest novel, telling Smith how brilliant he was, and he pretended to be modest, but I could see him hanging on her words, hungry for her praise.
He looked even better than I remembered, his thick, light hair golden in the candlelight. He wore a blue-green shirt that set off his eyes, and the man was certainly a big pile of handsome when he put on a suit. His driver, Claude, was a good-looking man, but Smith was by far the most attractive man—no, person—in the restaurant that night. Or at least he was to me.
I wanted dinner to end so we could be alone together. Of course, being alone together scared me, so I took my time deciding on dessert, and I ate my chocolate cake with raspberry-lemon drizzle oh-so-slowly.
My mother fake-yawned and pushed her chair back, excusing herself. Claude said he had to make a phone call to his wife, and the two of them left.
We were alone. Just me and Smith.
His voice husky, he said, “Did you enjoy the book?”
I could have lied, and said I hadn't read it, but there was something about Smith that made me want to tell the truth, to be na**d to him.
“The book was beautiful,” I said. “And the new scene at the end, with the hot air balloon, that was brilliant.”
“Yes, well, it's a shame what's going to happen to Sheri in the next book, but the bigger the tragedy, the more memorable the story is to people.”
My heart sunk. “What?”
“Come on, Tori, you know how it is. We can't have Dunham settle down, it'll be the end. Dullsville. Nobody wants to read about a domesticated Smith, wiping the poop out of diapers.”
I set my fork down. “Wow. Tragedy and poopie diapers. You sure know how to romance a girl.”
He leaned back, laughing, and stuck his hands in his pockets. “You know, I meant everything I said in the dedication. You did break me. I was a wreck after you left Montreal, but I think I'm in a better place now.” His gaze went to my neck. “I'm so glad you wore the necklace. It looks as perfect as I imagined.” He leaned across the table and reached out to touch the necklace. As I looked down, he booped me on the tip of my nose.
I leaned back from the table. “Did you just boop me?”
He shrugged. “I booped you. Couldn't help myself.”
“Story of your life. That should be the title of your memoir. Couldn't Help Myself.”
“You're right. I'm sorry. I apologize.”
The waiter came by to take away our plates and bring us small pots of fresh tea.
After he'd left, Smith repeated himself, “I truly am sorry.”
“For smashing the lamp and scaring the crap out of me? You should be. Whatever. I guess I forgive you. Sounded like you had a lot of baggage going on with your ex-wife. Not my business.”
“After we separated, she spent some time in a mental health facility. I see what you're thinking, and just stop right there. I did not drive her to madness. She had serious issues since before I even met her.” He poured some tea into his cup and stared into the swirling liquid. “She was my first love, though. We started an affair together when I was eighteen, and I wasn't smart enough to see the relationship was bad for me.”
“I think I can relate.”
He looked up, catching me in his powerful gaze. “Tori, I don't want to be anything to you if it's not going to bring you joy. The worst thing I can imagine myself doing is hurting you, and I'll stay away if that's what you wish, but you'll have to help me by…” His gaze wandered down from my eyes to my neck and my chest. “Not being so damn ravishing. Especially if you're going to come to my cabin in two months to help me type the next novel.”
“I don't understand. You flew me here to Switzerland to ask me to type for you?”
“And more,” he said, stretching both his hands across the table toward me.
I looked down at the glint of gold.
A wedding band.
On his ring finger.
Smith was married.
And he wanted me to… what? Type? Be his mistress?
I pushed my chair back so I was out of his reach. “Smith Wittingham, you are…” I went through the mental list of bad names I usually called him, but none of them were bad enough. “You are just THE WORST!”
People were staring, of course, so I got up and stomped out of the restaurant. The elevators were to the left, but I turned to the right, toward the doors.
I shoved the doors open with a clatter and ran outside. The car-less village sparkled in the snow all around me, and I wanted to scream my outrage and hear it echo through the Alps, but I didn't want to disturb all the nice people who lived in the village, so I just started running.
Smith came after me, yelling, “Tori, wait!”
All the words I didn't say back in the restaurant came to me. I kept running, and yelling at him, letting everything out. The heel on one of my shoes broke, which made me even more angry.
He caught up to me easily, hobbled as I was, and he caught me in his arms. “Wait, I need to say something to you,” he said.
“Well, just say it. Blah-blah, I broke you, but now you're fine and thank-you-very-much Tori, and why don't you f**k off and die, you awful son-of-a—”