My Cherie Amour (Fully Posted)

Chapter 26

Blaise

Blaise wanted to ask Cherie what she was thinking about. As she looked out of the window next to her seat on his plane, he wanted to ask if she'd ever performed in Canada before, and if the large group of musicians she'd made connections with over the years included anyone from that country. He wanted to ask if she already regretted agreeing to his request without having the context to justify it.

More than any of that, though, he wanted to ask if she still had enough goodwill left toward him to believe that he cared about her.

Sighing, he tried to focus on his notebook and relax into his own seat a few rows behind. He observed that it hadn't been that long ago when she'd sat beside him for their flights to and from Bahia. He remembered her burying her curls in his shoulder for one of her inevitable naps, and after she woke, they talked in confidential tones as though they weren't the only ones there.

This time was different, however. This time, she'd boarded without so much as a word to him. He hadn't known that head nods and headshakes could convey such coolness until she limited communication with him. As a result, he'd stopped trying for a while so he could recover from the sting, but eventually, the silence chafed too much for him not to break it.

"Cherie?"

He saw her shoulders stiffen, and she craned her neck to look at him. Still, her lips didn't part.

"I know I said this before, but I'm grateful to you for coming, especially under the circumstances. I'll do whatever I can to repair the damage to us if you let me."

She only blinked.

"I hope you're comfortable. Are you?"

She nodded.

"Good." He cleared his throat. "Don't hesitate to get more snacks if you're hungry. This isn't the longest flight, but it's not the shortest, either."

One corner of her mouth lifted, and he thought she might tease him. His imagination favored her saying, "Oh, really? Does that mean it's medium-sized?" But she didn't.

Lifting a half-finished bag of pretzels, she waved them, and ate one for emphasis. Then, without waiting for him to speak further, she turned her head back to the window.

Tilting his own head back against his seat, Blaise thought to himself that their midrange flight felt much, much longer.

***

Thirty minutes later, Cherie seemed too deep in the land of dreams to object to him getting closer, so Blaise switched seats.

Once he was settled, he took a good look at her. Two days had elapsed since he showed up on her doorstep, not knowing whether she'd listen or leave him out in the cold. He'd had no shame about putting aside his pride in order to do that. The walls she'd put up weren't so high that he couldn't see she was suffering. Suffering, and questioning everything he'd ever professed to feel about her. He didn't want that.

Love, he believed, was the one certainty between them.

It was love that made his heart ache at the bags beneath her lower lashes and the dullness of her complexion, just as it was love that made him see the beauty that shined through regardless. It was also love that made him determined to do what he'd thought impossible for years, and that was reveal his biggest secret to someone who wasn't some kind of mystic. He thought it was the least he could do, and potentially his last opportunity to salvage her regard.

Another half hour passed before Cherie stirred beside him. Putting his pen and notebook down, he prepared for an expression of displeasure and got what he expected.

"Why aren't you in your seat?" she asked, her eyes severely narrowing.

Without thinking, Blaise said, "Cherie, it's my plane. All the seats are mine."

Her eyebrows rose.

"I'm kidding. Just kidding, my darling."

"I'm not your anything, Blaise, but you're right about this plane being yours. The only reason I tagged along is because, perhaps foolishly, I want to see if you'll deliver on your vague, breadcrumb of a promise to make our last conversation make sense."

"I seriously appreciate you giving me that chance."

"Yes, I'm giving it to you. You're not entitled to it, or to me."

He took a breath. "I know."

Cherie laughed, not her normal, exuberant laugh, but a sharp, bitter one. "Do you? Do you, really? You made me a pawn. Our so-called relationship was a lie. And honestly, I don't know why you took the game this far, since I clearly wasn't enough." The bitter laugh came out again. "I should've saved us both the trouble and gone on my way when you called me repressed."

"What are you talking about?" he asked, unable to hide his shock. "I've never said that to you."

"Actually, you did. Before that monster hangover you had on our vacation, I had the enlightening privilege of meeting your drunken self, and he called me a 'repressed, afraid little girl'—with great enthusiasm, I might add."

Mortified, Blaise shook his head. "Cherie, that's not really how I think of you, and you said yourself that I was drunk."

"Hmm, what's that saying? Drunk words speak sober thoughts?"

"That's far from always true. Intoxicated people say things that they don't mean all the time. I've told complete strangers I loved them."

"Interesting. Drunken you said that he loved me, so what should I think about that?"

She couldn't have knocked the proverbial wind out of him more if she'd slapped him.

"I do love you, sweetheart," he whispered. "Drunk or sober. Then, and now."

Cherie looked back at her window. "I have neither the time nor the energy to sift through everything you've said, searching for what's real and what's not. So, I advise you to quit while you're ahead, and go back to your original seat."

Hard-pressed to make a reply, Blaise surrendered to her advice, the fact that they'd veered off course needling him all the while. And though he hated to admit it, he could see no way to come back.

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