The Dance We Remember (Love and Other Dreams #4)

Chapter 2

Maxime

The azure blue tie around my neck feels like a noose. The shirt cuffs encircle my wrists like shackles. Concealing my discomfort, I sink onto the chair that Monsieur Allard has just offered me and open my briefcase.

"We should get to the formalities," I say, taking the folder from my bag and placing it on the worn wooden table.

My business partner slips his hands into the pockets of his corduroy pants and saunters to the floor-to-ceiling terrace door. He stops in front of the dusty, murky glass and gazes outside at the terrace in need of renovation, beyond which lies a wild garden. He doesn't respond but breathes in and out with effort.

I clear my throat and open the folder. "This is the purchase agreement." I cautiously glance over at him, but he does not react. "So... um... I'll go ahead and read it out, alright?"

His shoulders twitch. "Go ahead," he replies, turning to face me but still positioned near the exit as if he needs to keep an escape route open.

" La révolution et le luxe acquires from Charles Allard a flat-roofed villa, built in 1835, with a living area of one thousand four hundred square feet and a plot of six thousand square yards," I read from the documents, loosening my tie knot with my index finger to get some air at least.

Monsieur Allard takes out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. "Have you ever lost something that meant a great deal to you?" he asks, tapping a cigarette out of the pack.

Now, I'm the one who doesn't answer. He doesn't need to know that more than four years ago, I lost something that meant the world to me. I'm here to buy this run-down villa on behalf of my boss, Pierre. He will renovate it extensively, and then I will sell it as a luxury property to the highest bidder. That's my job. He pays the rent and keeps the fridge stocked.

"This building has a soul," the man by the terrace door continues thoughtfully. "My wife's soul."

Oh God, please no. I don't want to think about lost souls, especially not female ones.

He lights the cigarette and takes such a deep drag that his cheeks transform into deep craters. "Selling the villa will weigh heavily on her."

I lower the purchase agreement. "Do you want to reconsider the deal?" I ask, fully aware that my boss would never forgive me if he found out.

You have to be tougher, Maxime. We are businessmen, not social workers! he rages in my thoughts.

"Well,"—Monsieur Allard lets the ashes from his cigarette fall to the stone floor—"she already hates me anyway, so I suppose it doesn't matter anymore."

"Divorced?" I ask even though I should agree and direct his focus back to the contract. We still need to finalize the purchase price and review the clauses together.

Don't leave the contract with him for review , my boss demanded yesterday at our headquarters in Paris, his expression serious. He must sign it immediately after you've softened him up.

"Divorced and deceived." My business partner snorts with effort. "At least she didn't get this house here. So, in a way, I won, didn't I?"

Underneath my jacket, I start to sweat. Clearly, this woman has broken his heart. Dealing with something like that is not easy. Actually, it's impossible.

He inhales his cigarette as if his life depends on it and steps closer.

"Women are curious creatures, don't you think?" He asks, releasing a cloud of smoke into the air.

Absolutely. You think you know them. You believe they are the best reason to face your problems and become a better person. But then—in an instant—they do things that lead to only one possible conclusion: You have no idea who they truly are.

"They lie and cheat," Monsieur Allard says amid my thoughts. His hand wanders over the grain of the wooden table. Suddenly, he looks directly at me. "You know what I believe?"

Silently, I shake my head.

"The more we do for them, the more deceitful they become," he says, his mouth turning downward, his jugular pulsing. "They take advantage of us, make us dependent on them, and then gleefully drop us when we least expect it."

I bite down hard on my tongue to keep the words welling up inside me from escaping. But they leave my mouth as soon as I lessen the pressure. "Why do they do that?"

There it is. The question that has plagued me for years. I've tried to suppress it, but deep down, I know I’ll find peace only when I have the answer.

With a scornful laugh, Monsieur Allard reaches for the purchase agreement. "Because they enjoy it. And now I'm going to enjoy selling that bitch's legacy." With those words, he settles into the chair opposite me, tosses the cigarette to the floor, and stamps it out. Then he immerses himself in the first page of the contract.

Absentmindedly, I watch him. So this is his way of coping with the breakup. Bitterness, combined with a desire for revenge and satisfaction.

Will I ever think like that one day?

The villa's seller flips to the last page of the contract. "One million is not enough."

What amount would be suitable to get back at your ex-wife properly? my boss would ask with a wicked grin. Think about what you would be conveying to your wife if you were to sell the property for a pittance.

Yes, that's how my boss would approach it. Because he knows that this weary man sitting across from me, who is reaching for his cigarette pack again, lost something in his divorce that is far more important to him than money: his pride.

"That's the offer," I say, lifting my shoulders with difficulty. "We buy at this price or not at all." I hate it when I have to put people under pressure at work. I'd much rather show compassion.

After all these years, it seems I'm still not cut out for it. There's only one thing I was ever really good at. But going back there is impossible.

"I'll think about it," Monsieur Allard says, but I barely register it. Only when he pushes his chair noisily backward to stand do I resurface from my thoughts. "It was a pleasure, Monsieur Rousseau." He extends his hand to me. "I'll get back to you tomorrow."

He must sign it immediately! my boss rages in my head. "Certainly," I say nonetheless and shake his hand.

This is a big step for him. Selling the villa is like cutting the last thread connecting him to his ex-wife. I understand how difficult it is for him.

Monsieur Allard escorts me through the hallway to the outside. As I leave the property, he already has a new cigarette in his mouth.

In walking, I glance at my wristwatch, which tells me the sun will set soon. I stow the tie in my briefcase and unbutton my cuffs. With the jacket over my arm, I stroll along the fields leading to the Atlantic. A pleasant breeze caresses my face, and the sun's warm rays tingle on my cheeks.

Soon, I head for the outdoor area of a small café with a view of the coast. Here, I will check my emails and complete the daily reporting. The fact that I couldn't close the deal today will not please my boss. I need to concoct a plausible reason to keep his anger in check.

Sighing, I enter the café through a wildly overgrown archway and find an empty table beside a fountain. I take off my jacket, sink into the chair, and open my laptop with a sigh. Seventy-five emails, all in the past six hours. It's going to be a long evening.

I roll up my sleeves, shield my eyes from the slanting sunlight, and immerse myself in the first message.

"Bonjour. What can I get you?" someone asks.

Instantly, I freeze.

Is that her voice?

No. That's impossible. Or is it?

"Hello. Is everything okay?" she asks.

My forearm hair stands on end in a flash.

From that moment, everything moves in slow motion.

I take my hand off my forehead.

Lift my eyelids.

See matchstick legs clad in fluttery jeans. A server apron. Forearms with fine hairs that suddenly stand on end, and bony fingers clutching a notepad and pen.

Slowly, she lowers her arms, and my gaze continues upward.

To her collarbones protruding from the neckline of her T-shirt. Over her unmistakably elegant neck.

It's her.

That's her round chin, her slender nose.

The glasses are new. But the eyes behind the lenses are still the same.

I stare at her.

And although it's wrong, the same fire burns within me as it did when we first met.

“Aurora,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.