Con knew. And he’d tried to tell me. But I wouldn’t listen. I didn’t know why I was so shocked. Yve had mentioned the speculation about their relationship in the online gossip columns. Except dumbass me had assumed it was just that—speculation. Because a good guy like Simon wouldn’t keep a lady for his public persona and a tatted-up bad girl on the side, right? I laughed humorlessly. That’s what I get for making assumptions.
Again, maybe I wasn’t being fair, because even if he’d asked me to go to an event like last night’s gala, I would have turned him down cold. There was no way I could brave the cameras to stand by his side. Someone would figure it out, my anonymity would evaporate, and then the FBI would swoop in. But he didn’t ask me—he hadn’t even mentioned it—so fuck being fair.
I walked out of the café without getting coffee or my damn beignet.
I stalked into the shop, but didn’t make it more than three steps past the door before Yve pounced.
“Who pissed in your Cheerios?”
“Not talking about it.” The incriminating section of the local paper was shoved in my bag with the section of The New York Times. I wasn’t sure why I took that one too. Maybe so I could pull it out and look at it for a reality check every time I remembered how amazing last night had been.
Yve frowned. “Seriously, Charlie. You look … sad. Is Huck still coming home tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” Which was one more kink I had to iron out. I was sure Simon would be showing up to help me get Huck home, and no way in hell was I accepting any more help from him. Harriet would just have to haul out her old diesel Mercedes station wagon. And then the bill … I’d pay the whole freaking thing. If it was more than I had, I would swallow my pride and ask either Harriet or Con for a loan. I was not going to be further indebted to Simon or his friend.
“Then what gives?”
Yve wasn’t going to let it go. She was almost as bad as Juanita when it came to needling you until you confessed. I reached into my bag and pulled out one of the sections of newspaper, checking first to make certain it was the right one. I slapped it on the counter in front of her.
“Went for coffee. Found this instead.”
Yve looked down and studied the picture. “Same blond bitch from the society pages online.”
“Yeah, well, I thought whatever they had was history. Especially because last night he was at my house. And I was naked. And orgasms were involved.”
Yve scanned the paper, presumably doing what I had done first—looking for the date. “But he was at the gala last night.”
“After he picked me up from here, but before he picked me up from Voodoo at two. Busy guy.”
Yve’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Damn. I’m sorry, girl. That sucks. You better believe if he shows up here, I’ll run his ass out.”
“Thanks. You mind if I leave a little early today? I have a feeling he’s going to be coming by.” I hated to ask, especially because I needed the money now more than ever, and I’d been leaving early way too often already.
“Do what you need to do. You need some help tomorrow getting your pup home?”
I shook my head, a new plan already forming. I would skip Harriet’s Mercedes and get Con to help me. He had a beat up Tahoe that he drove when he wasn’t on his Harley. And he wouldn’t let Simon get near me if I didn’t want him to. Con wasn’t the type to say ‘I told you so,’ but I still wasn’t looking forward to telling him I’d learned my lesson the hard way despite his warnings. I felt so … stupid. Which was just one more strike against Simon.
I ducked out of the Dirty Dog before closing and went straight to Voodoo. I didn’t want to run the risk that Simon would stop by the parlor before I had a chance to tell Con that I was unavailable if Simon Duchesne was doing the asking.
Con wasn’t in yet, so I took the opportunity to call Jack Richelieu’s cell number from the shop phone.
When Jack answered, I explained that since I was so excited to come get Huck—which was no exaggeration—I was hoping we could do it earlier on Sunday morning than we’d planned. He agreed without question, clearly assuming that ‘we’ meant Simon and me. I hoped his assumption would stop him from calling Simon to confirm. I would owe Con an even bigger favor for getting his ass out of bed at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning, but hopefully it would be worth it.
When Con finally showed his face, he looked like he’d partied until noon and still hadn’t slept at all. Our conversation went much the way I expected: he was happy to help me out and told me I owed him one. Then he sent me home, telling me to lay low tonight. Between disconnecting my intercom and keeping my phone off, I had no idea if Simon tried to contact me or not. I told myself I didn’t care.
I was all nerves when Sunday morning dawned, and Con rolled up in his Tahoe.
“Thanks for this,” I said as I climbed in the passenger side.
He nodded. “No problem. You know I’m always here if you need something, Lee. No matter what.”
His loyalty was more than I deserved.
We rode in silence to the clinic, The Steve Miller Band jamming on the stereo.
My stomach dropped to the floor mat at the sight of Simon’s blue BMW in the parking lot. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Con backed into a spot next to the door, the same way Simon had parked. At my panicked expression, Con reached over and squeezed my shoulder. “Don’t worry, babe. He won’t cause a scene. Wouldn’t be proper Duchesne behavior.”