шI began to laugh. “Remind me how I ended up here again.”
“Solène”—he smiled—“it’s just lunch.”
If I’d managed to forget Hayes was a celebrity during our near two-hour meal, there was no ignoring it when we walked across the terrace of the Hotel Bel-Air restaurant. All six feet two inches of him, in black jeans and black boots. Heads turned and eyes widened and patrons gestured among themselves, and he seemed not to notice. He’d grown accustomed to tuning them out.
In the walkway, just before we reached the bridge, he stopped me, his hand on my waist, familiar. “You go on, and I’ll pop into the lounge for a bit.”
That seemed wise. Not that I couldn’t sell Hayes being a potential buyer to inquiring friends. I just wasn’t sure I could sell it to Isabelle.
He seemed to realize how close he was standing and stepped back, his fingers loosening slowly.
“Thank you,” he said, “for coming today. This was perfect.”
“It was.” We stood there for a moment, at arm’s distance, feeling the undeniable pull.
“Isabelle’s mum,” he mouthed, smiling. I wasn’t sure if he was relishing the moniker or the thought.
“Hayes Campbell.”
“I can’t kiss you here.” His voice was low, raspy.
“Who said I wanted you to?”
He laughed at that. “I want to.”
“Well, that’s problematic, then, isn’t it? You should have chosen a more secluded place.”
Hayes cocked his head, his jaw falling slack. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just messing with you,” I laughed. “This was lovely.”
“Because if you want, I could get us a room…” He grinned.
“I’m sure you could.”
“I just thought you were a respectable lady.”
“Only sometimes.” I leaned into him then to kiss his cheek. Not an art world air-kiss, but the chance to press his skin against mine, breathe in his scent, and lock it in my memory. A little like stealing. “Thank you for lunch, Mr. Campbell. ’Til next time…” And with that, I turned and walked off toward the unassuming paparazzi.
There was no definitive plan. We’d parted without making specific arrangements; I went back to my full life, and he to his. And yet almost immediately, I found myself wanting to see him again.
He called from the road, every three days or so, beckoning. “Come to Seattle, Solène … Meet me in Denver, Solène … Phoenix … Houston…” And each time I declined. We were swamped at work: opening our May show for conceptual painter Nkele Okungbowa, prepping our pieces to be shown at Art Basel. Isabelle had the school play. Much as I wanted, I could not just hop on a plane at his whim and allow myself to be whisked away. I had responsibilities. I had priorities. I had concerns about how it would look.