Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“Busy. Solange is a whirlwind. But I can keep up with her.”
“Of course you can. Were you up at dawn, sitting at a café?”
A tiny smile shifts her lips. “Yes. I read some of my book by the river.”
Montmartre isn’t near the river. “You must have been up quite early to make it to the Seine before work.”
She shrugs, like of course. “How many times will I be able to do that?”
Many, if I have a say in it.
We reach the sixth floor and as soon as she opens the door to the flat, I set a hand on her forearm. God, her skin feels incredible. I sizzle from this small touch. “I’ll get the glasses.”
Without waiting for her answer, I stride through the chic flat. A red sofa, an antique armoire, and artwork that looks like it comes from an outdoor market all signal a minimalist-meets-French style that’s perfect for the show’s look. I step out on the balcony, grab the glasses from the ledge, then turn around in the doorway.
But she’s right behind me. “Actually, it’s okay.”
My brow creases. “It is?”
She closes the distance between us then steps onto the balcony and peers over Le Marais. She breathes in, breathes out. I say nothing—just watch her as she checks out the view, even though I don’t think she’s enjoying it.
After a beat, she turns to me. “But thank you,” she says softly.
I don’t entirely understand her fear, but I can tell this is important to her—this act of independence.
“Did it bother you that I wanted to help?”
“No. Not at all. I’m just not used to someone helping,” she says like she wishes it weren’t that way. “Or knowing.”
Oh.
She doesn’t tell people about her fear of heights. “Thanks for letting me, then. Even if I was pushy.”
She takes another big breath then shakes her head. “You weren’t.”
I hand her the glasses, and she heads back inside, then stops in the foyer. I catch up to her, and her gaze strays briefly to the door.
Someone else from the show could come in here any second. A set designer, a costumer, another producer. But right now, we’re the only ones here, and there’s a charge in the air, a palpable energy.
I hold her face with my hand. “Have dinner with me tonight. I need to get to know you more. I need to learn more about you. I want to take you on a date in Paris. Is that on your list?” I ask, taking a beat to let those words land.
To watch her eyes answer with a twinkle.
Then, she says, “Yes.”
When I walk into the bistro where we’re meeting in Montmartre, I can tell she’s here before I see her. I smell honeysuckle, and it’s the scent of wanting.
23
UNCOMPLICATED
Finn
The warm night air floats down the cobblestone street, drifting seductively around us at a sidewalk table in Montmartre.
“And that’s how I found out about The Scene,” Jules says as she tucks a strand of brown hair behind her ear, finishing the story. “From dancing with friends at Revel House. I heard about it and I had to go. I mean, role-play and all.”
“Do you do that a lot? Go out dancing?” I ask, gobbling up all the details I can get.
“I do.” She hesitates, then adds, “That’s how I became friends with Harlow…and Layla.” She says it almost like she doesn’t want to mention my brother’s fiancée to me. Or, more likely, any of our shared connections, in case they lead to other ones.
“Our small world,” I say, addressing the elephant on the sidewalk. “Pretty sure I saw you at my nephew’s engagement party several months ago. At a bowling alley.”
“David’s engagement party. I was there,” she says, a smile coasting across her lips. She remembers it too.
“Marilyn had moved out. We were getting divorced, and I saw you a few lanes over. I didn’t connect the dots that you were my friend’s daughter. I just couldn’t stop looking at you. You were so…captivating.”
She dips her face, but not like she’s embarrassed. More like she’s delighted. “Really? You were checking me out?”
“Apparently, I’ve had a thing for you for a while,” I say, and I should feel bad for lying by omission to my best friend. Hell, I should feel bad for lying period.
Yet here I am, doing it anyway.
And loving it.
I’m a bad, bad man.
Jules leans closer. “Well, I’ve had a thing for you since the night I met you. When we were strangers.” She lowers her voice to a playful whisper. “We could pretend we’re strangers again.”
That’s my kinky girl. “You want that tonight, don’t you?”
She nibbles on the corner of her lips. “Or student and teacher. Or hotel maid and guest.”
I groan, then toss my napkin on the table. “How am I going to make it through a meal with you?”