Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
The sound of the hymn amplified as I passed by signs instructing visitors not to take pictures, and it continued to increase once I stepped into the domed structure. A bright mosaic of deep blues, brilliant golds, and a huge image of Jesus with outstretched arms covered the ceiling. I wasn’t particularly religious, but I had to admit, there was something about the place that felt spiritual, something about the way mosaic Jesus stared down at me like he knew my deepest, darkest sins—desecrating a cemetery with lust.
I held my phone by my hip and snuck a photo, then another. “It’s our secret, Jesus,” I whispered as I moved past people lighting candles in front of a statue of Mary.
I plopped onto a wooden pew, bowed my head—I figured it was the most respectful thing to do if I intended to disregard the rules of a church so blatantly—and flipped my camera around, aiming it straight up.
Ten seconds into the recording, someone took a seat right beside me. Right beside me. Why in the world would someone feel the need to invade my personal fake-prayer bubble when there were about twenty empty pews?
The distinctive, leathery scent of Vance’s cologne wrapped around me, and I whipped my head around. Sure enough. There he sat, dead center in a beam of sunlight streaming through the stained-glass window. He looked like some delectable god of hate-fucks.
I bit the inside of my cheek. My internal monologue had just called him a god of hate-fucks while I sat in a church, underneath the biggest Jesus I’d ever seen, making an illegal recording. I was on a freaking roll today.
Vance swiped an anxious hand through his hair, dragging my attention to the Ava-Cato-shaped tan line on his forehead. My guess? He’d snatched the bandage off the second he’d descended into the depths of the metro and away from my sight.
“What are you doing in Montmartre?” I asked. “Your itinerary said you would leave at five.” And one thing I had been certain of was him following that damned thing to a T. Then again, maybe his phone had died, and he’d forgotten how to function without the call of his timers.
“I—” His brows furrowed. “Wait. You’re actively trying to avoid me?”
I was. Just like I was actively trying not to look at his lips. “No. I just…” The choir fell silent, and I stopped the recording. Screw it. Why should I lie? “Fine. Yes, I was. Because I could have gone my entire life without knowing you have really soft lips that taste like vanilla mint.”
A slight smirk worked over his face. Yep. Whatever the pull was between us needed to be ignored. Mosaic Jesus only knew how cocky Vance would get if things went any further—smirking about a kiss.
A loud click of heels echoed through the silent space and that sexy smirk of his fell like a drunk man falling down stairs.
“We’ll talk about why you should know my lips taste like vanilla mint later, but right now—” He glanced over his shoulder, mumbled, “Fuck,” then turned back to me. “I need you to pretend you’re my girlfriend.”
Dumb, heartbreak-jonesing butterflies erupted in my chest. The man had reduced me to a twelve-year-old girl. “What? No!” I scooted away from him, forcing a frown. “Why would I do that?”
He glanced over his shoulder again, then ducked down in the pew. “Because there’s a girl,” he whispered.
I felt my brow lift. That was how all bad things in a romantic comedy movie started. There was a girl, and she was usually—
“And she’s insane.” There it was. The second part of the plot I knew all too well. “And she won’t leave me alone.”
The quickening tap of heels grew louder. “She’s insane and won’t leave you alone.” The wooden pew creaked when I shifted a little farther away from him. “And I would want to get roped into that shitshow because?”
The pew shook when a blond dressed in head-to-toe bubble gum pink took a seat at the end of the row. She slid across, nuzzling right up to Vance, and my make-believe girlfriend jealousy swelled as his pleading eyes widened.
I leaned forward, glancing at the girl who, to be fair, looked unstable as hell. She had one of those Barbie doll-esque perma-smiles, chompers so white they made my own teeth hurt at the thought of how much bleach she’d had to use.
“There you are, silly billy,” she said in an American accent.
Silly. Billy. Something about that sent her level of crazy hurtling over the cliff.
Vance closed his eyes and pulled in a heavy breath while a million questions swam through my head. Where had this girl come from? How did she end up striking up a conversation with Vance? Why was she following him into a church, of all places, when he obviously wanted nothing to do with her? If there was one thing I’d learned from watching The Hunchback of Notre Dame, it was that churches were meant to be a sanctuary. Evidently, Psycho Barbie here hadn’t gotten that memo.