Icy Pretty Love by L.A Rose Read Free Book Online Page A

home turf. It doesn’t matter if Rae Grove is still waiting to be kicked out like a rat that scurried in to get out of the cold.
    I didn’t know that waiters wore those funny-looking grasshopper outfits in real life, or that there were people who could carry silver platters covered in champagne flutes one-handed. I didn’t know that there were restaurant ceilings so high, or live music so beautiful. I didn’t know that people could be this happy. Suddenly I want to cry.
    Stop it, Rae. Stop it. Just because you’re in the fox’s den and wearing furry ears, it doesn’t mean you’re not still prey.
    “This way.” Cohen guides my elbow gently and the rest of me follows.
    A waiter chases us down and says something in French, probably along the lines of may we help you, sir?
    “I’m here with a party of two,” he says abruptly, without stopping his stride into the dining room. He walks like someone who wants to get this over with as quickly as possible.
    The waiter switches to English. “Then allow me to—”
    “I could never stand that attitude waiters have that I’m too stupid to handle my own business,” Cohen snaps. “I know who I’m here to meet and I’ll find them myself.”
    The waiter blanches. I blink, my mouth slightly open. It’s the first interaction I’ve seen Cohen have with someone other than me, Renard, or his father, the latter who deserved the cutting tone. I’m starting to understand why they had to hire someone like me, someone used to poor treatment, to play his fiancé.
    I’m about to demand he apologize when I look up and see the fine line at the corner of his mouth. He’s worried this isn’t going to work.
    “Relax,” I tell him quietly. “I’ve got this under control.”
    He starts, like he isn’t sure how I responded correctly to something he didn’t say, but before he can ask, we’re at the table.
    “Ah, Cohen.” The older man who stands up is the definition of grandfatherly—dust-grey hair swept neatly back from his forehead, skin like well-worn tissue paper, smile lines etched around his mouth and eyes. “How wonderful to see you again.”
    Though his French accent is strong, his English is impeccable. He grasps Cohen’s hand like he’s known him forever. The other two people at the table—a guy in his twenties with an underbite that could catch a school of fish and a stunning woman with ruby earrings—look me up and down.
    “And this,” says the older man reverently, releasing Cohen’s hand and reaching for mine, “must be her.”
    There’s a moment of awkward silence in which Cohen fails to introduce me.
    “You must be Mr. LeCrue,” I twinkle, offering a firm yet delicate shake. “I’ve heard so much about you. I’m Georgette Montgomery, and, well—” I look down, summoning a blush. “You must have heard the news.”
    “Heard I did, but believe I did not—until now.” LeCrue shakes his head and lets out a whoosh of breath. Cohen still hasn’t said a word. Impatience and irritation emanate from him in an itchy cloud. He might as well be yelling about how stupid he thinks this whole thing is. I can only hope he doesn’t blow it.
    The underbite guy stands up and slaps Cohen on the back with the air of a nerdy high schooler trying to act like one of the cool jocks. “Nice one, Cohen,” he leers. Cohen gives him one look and he removes his hand immediately, turning to me instead. “You’re way too gorgeous to have to put up with Mr. Attitude. What’s your damage?”
    Georgette blushes some more. I decide, with complete finality, I do not like this guy.
    “Miss Montgomery, this is my son, Claude,” says LeCrue reproachfully. “And his wife, Annabelle. Please do sit down.”
    Stiffly, Cohen pulls out a chair for me next to Annabelle. I take my seat. Annabelle leans over, winks, and whispers, “Once they’re drunk, we’ll have a chance for some girl talk.”
    All I can do for a moment is stare at her. She’s a real Georgette Montgomery.