Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 68688 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68688 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
He seemed to know that because he extended his palm forward, his knuckles against the counter.
I stared at the big hand that had touched me everywhere, that had carried me to his bed, that had held me when I fell asleep against his chest on the couch, that squeezed my ass in a way that made me feel possessed rather than objectified. I finally placed my hand in his and felt his fingers close around it and give it a nice squeeze.
It felt so nice… I couldn’t even describe it.
“Sweetheart.”
My eyes lifted to his, feeling that warmth in my chest again, falling deep into those blue eyes.
“It’s gonna be okay.”
We went to Au Pied de Cochon after I got off work, a restaurant I’d spent a lot of time in since my divorce, the perfect place for a smoke after a long day, for a late-night meal when I didn’t have time to eat anything.
There were a few people in the restaurant, but it was mostly empty except for us and a couple other tables.
Bastien ordered a stiff drink, and I had a glass of wine and an appetizer.
It was nearly three in the morning, but Bastien didn’t seem even slightly tired. He didn’t have bags under his eyes, had a distinct clarity to his gaze that made it seem like he’d woken up just a few hours ago.
The drinks were brought to our table, along with the burrata I ordered.
Bastien didn’t seem interested because he didn’t touch it.
“I haven’t eaten anything today.”
“Then you should have ordered more than the burrata.”
“I said I hadn’t eaten, not that I was hungry.” I grabbed a piece of bread and spooned the fresh cheese with the tomato on top, making my own version of bruschetta. I took a bite, struck by the subtle salt and the basil, the cheese so fresh it seemed to have been prepared just that hour.
With his fingers resting on the top of his short glass, his elbows on the table, he was a man far too big for such a small table. We were on the second level against the window, seeing the buildings lit up across the way.
I drank my glass of wine, enjoying the floral tones that masked the distinctiveness of the alcohol. After serving people fancy drinks all night, it was nice to enjoy one myself. I would have sat outside and enjoyed a cigarette if it weren’t so cold, but the dampness in the air would probably give me a chill.
“We can talk about it or not talk about it,” Bastien said. “Either is fine with me.”
I looked down at my glass then his, seeing the tattoos on the backs of his fingers, Roman numerals. It started off at I on his pinkie and then made its way to V on his thumb. Both of his hands were that way. “What do the Roman numerals mean?” I lifted my gaze to his eyes.
He didn’t look down at his hands to check what I meant. “The Fifth Republic.”
My eyes searched his for more information.
“The second-longest reigning political system in France—our current political system.”
I stared at his ink for another moment before I looked at him again. “And why is that important to you?”
He stared at me for a long time, his fingers resting on top of his glass. “Because that is the Republic that I serve.”
I’d been submerged in a depression that was colder than the Arctic, but my head popped out of the water when I heard what he said, when I understood it was important, even though I didn’t know why. “Adrien told me you’re dangerous.”
He didn’t react like he’d been caught in the spotlight, like he was red-handed in the midst of a crime. Adrien’s eyes had reacted in a distinctive way when I’d cornered him about Cecilia. He couldn’t lie his way out of it. But Bastien didn’t do that, didn’t stiffen like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I am dangerous,” he said. “But not to you.”
A warning flashed in my heart, but I ignored it—for better or worse. “How are you dangerous?”
He turned his attention elsewhere, surveying the other tables and deciding they were far enough away. “It’s a long and complicated story, but this is the headline you’re looking for—I kill people.”
This was the part where I should walk out and not look back, but I sat there and stared, the burrata forgotten. Adrien made his living in his nefarious ways, but it was a victimless crime because no one got hurt. But Bastien looked me in the eye and told me the truth—bluntly. Perhaps I was focusing on the wrong thing here, but that kind of honesty was damn refreshing. “Thank you for telling me the truth.”
The seriousness of his face softened, his mouth possessing a hint of a smile. “You’ll get tired of my honesty after a while.”