Total pages in book: 183
Estimated words: 174715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 874(@200wpm)___ 699(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 874(@200wpm)___ 699(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Cole presses me into the corner of the car, and pulls his lips from my lips, his eyes burning into mine a moment before voices sound just behind him. A rush of people swarm the car and Cole settles against the wall, pulling my back to his front, the hard ridge of his erection nestling my backside. I am aroused, wet, aching all over for this man, and ready to go back upstairs. My hand closes down on his hand where it settles on my belly and the rest of the ride down is eternal until finally the car halts. Cole leans down and whispers in my ear, “I’m going to obsess over that zipper all night long.”
My lips curve, a shiver racing down my spine as he nips my lobe. Yes. Please. Think about it. I love the Cole that wants and wants and wants more. That was the idea when I slipped into this dress. I am about to voice just that, but already he’s lacing his fingers with mine, leading me out of the car, and it’s only a few moments before we’re on the street, headed toward our dinner destination.
A short walk from our hotel on Champs-Élysées, Ladurée is a cozy spot world-renowned for their macarons, which has caused me about a five-pound gain on this trip. They also serve dinner, and once we’re inside the bakery, we approach the hostess. Soon we are turning to the rooms on our right and headed up a staircase where we are seated at a tiny corner table. Everything is tiny in Paris, and while Cole’s leg is intimately pressed to mine, he’s forced to behave since I could practically lean and I’ll be touching the man next to me.
Cole places our dinner orders for us with perfect, sexy French, a language that he apparently excelled at during school. I approve. Once the waitress leaves us alone again, we chat about our week and even our eventual caseload when we return home. I love that we are this connected. That we share so very much. I’ve never experienced this in my life, with anyone. Time flies by with us laughing, flirting and enjoying good food, as well as sweet, bubbly champagne. We’ve just finished off our dessert and coffee when Cole leans forward. “Look, sweetheart. Since we’re going home tomorrow, I need to fill you in on something.”
My eyes go wide. “What something and why do I not know already?”
“Because I wasn’t going to let you worry all week and before you panic, your mother is fine. I know that despite her recovery from her stroke, you worry, but it’s not about her. That said, you know that large trials can come with protestors, and you’re a protestor virgin no more. When you win a case, after the public prosecutes a client, like they did ours before we left for Paris, all hell breaks loose. We’ve had protestors at the office since we left, and that comes with random threats.”
Again, my eyes go wide. “Threats?”
His hands slide over mine where it rests on the table. “It happens. If I could keep you away from this stuff, I would, but it’s part of the job. And honestly, I didn’t think our win was one of those trigger cases. It was televised. It was pretty obvious that our client was innocent.”
“Will they target my mother?”
“Doubtful, but to be safe, I offered her and her new man a trip to the Hamptons to get out of the city for a while.”
“And my mother refused,” I assume, reaching for my purse to retrieve my phone.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he says, catching my hand again. “I convinced her to go. All is well and the only reason I’m telling you now, not in the morning, is that I knew you’d want to talk to her before we leave. With the time zone difference, that means tonight.”
Tension rolls across my chest and down my spine. “Right. Okay.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “What are you thinking?”
That I’m worried, I think but I say, “That I need to go to the bathroom.” I set my napkin down and stand up, barely avoiding the guy next to me as I hurry past our table and cut right toward a bathroom. I step inside the rather large room with no mirrors, two sinks, and four floor-to-ceiling doors, sealed shut. I’ve barely closed myself inside when Cole is joining me.
“What are you doing?” I demand, and already his big hands are on my waist, and he is pressing me against the wall.
“The bubble is not going to pop,” he says. “Nothing bad is happening. This is normal.”
“I know,” I whisper, unsure how he’s just put what I feel into words when I haven’t even formed it into coherent thoughts until this moment.