«Then come on give this lover boy a try.»
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The party, she soon realised, was truly family-friendly, as Sloane had called it when inviting them. The clarification of course came intending to let both Salma and Irina know that they couldn't do what they usually did at parties because this one had to be kept on the downlow. So they had to behave. Boring. At first, she didn't believe it, the warning that was, because the place was full of rich people and nobody loved overly drinking and questionable drugs more than rich people — she knew that for a fact — but as she stared at the scene unfolding in front of her, across the room where she stood by the bar, Salma gathered that okay, it was family-friendly indeed. What a snooze fest.
Max and Sloane were on the other side of the room, he was holding a little girl's hand, someone they probably abducted from one of his friends, whilst said little girl showed Sloane the bracelets around her tiny wrist, the model made exaggerated faces of surprise and played with the trinkets with her fingertips. Salma had no problem seeing all of it even from a distance. Max, sidelined from the bracelet conversation it seemed, still stared at the exchange between his girlfriend and the little girl with nothing but fondness. She reckoned that was the most domestic she'd seen those two act ever since they'd been together.
It was hard to believe that girl was the same Sloane who was flirting with half a club in New York around the same time a year ago. She huffed and shook her head. Admittedly it was five times better than weeping Sloane. Nobody wanted to see that again.
"You know, when those two have a little Dutch spawn, that kid might ask you why you never gave me a chance." Suddenly an elbow was brushing hers on the cold surface of the bar, and by now she sadly could admit to recognising his voice with ease.
It wasn't a surprise this time, because she knew Pierre would be there, Sloane told her so. That was what she referred to when offering to lend her a hand. Making sure her supposedly coincidental encounters with the driver were not actually that coincidental. She turned her attention to him, he was smiling, but she didn't return the gesture.
To her icy glare and lack of smile, which he didn't mind honestly, Pierre countered by carrying on with his starting point. "Tata Salma, why did you never date Papa's lovely friend Pierre?" His voice went an octave higher, as though imitating a child.
Salma resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Why would their kid use French lingo? Last time I checked those two are Dutch." Her finger danced in the air, pointing at the couple in question.
Pierre shrugged nonchalantly. "Easy. Rich kid raised in Monaco."
"Sloane would never raise a kid of hers in Monaco," She raised an eyebrow, challenging. It was a bit strange that she was familiar enough with Sloane to know such things about her. Salma never ran amongst a group of close friends. Until Irina. And later on, Sloane.
"But Max would," He assured this fully convinced, contrasting her initial bid.
Her lips parted a little, a sign of indignation over him not agreeing with her. "And? She clearly has the upper hand in the relationship."
"Do you want to bet?" The thing about Pierre, Salma concluded, was that he had far more confidence than he should. A case typical of many, many, guys.
But she could play with that. "Bet what? Aren't you tired of losing?" Maybe she really was using her abilities for the greater good, as Irina had said.
"I'll take that." He smiled, and she could feel the irritation churning something in the pit of her stomach. "Here's the deal: if I'm wrong, you get whatever you want, just tell me, but if I'm right, we go on a date."
