Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
She glares back unflinchingly. “Well?”
“Non! Bien sûr que non! Pourquoi tu me demanderais de telles bêtises?” When she blinks, not understanding, I grit my teeth and repeat myself, trying to maintain some sense of calm. “No, of course not. Why would you ask me such nonsense?”
She frowns, not backing down. “It’s not nonsense. I’m trying to figure out what’s going on here and not get the wrong idea. Business? Pleasure? You invite me into VIP and flirt, but when I say to keep things professional, you agree. Then you ask all sorts of personal questions and kiss me. You ask me out but then say we can go over the photos. For all I know, you’re doing this with all the designers. Some sort of test or something. I don’t know. Are you looking for PR issues with us, or seeing who’ll fit in with House Corbin, or screening for your next conquest?”
Her hands flail about as she tries to explain whatever is going on in her brilliant mind, but she’s apparently misread my intentions. I’m not sure how, considering I’ve been quite forward. But perhaps American men are even more so?
I huff out a pained laugh. “I don’t know how to be any clearer. If you want to only work together, I will welcome the chance. If you want to lie back and let me worship you, I would be the luckiest man on the face of Mother Earth tonight. If you would like to do both, I am honored to do so. You are in control, and I, your mere admirer.”
Her jaw drops, her eyes wide in surprise.
“Is that clear now?” I ask, smirking a little. “No confusion?”
“Oh, there’s plenty of that,” she mutters under her breath. To me, she says, “What if I don’t know? This is the biggest thing to happen to me—the competition, I mean, though you’re pretty big yourself.” She slaps her hands over her mouth in horror. “Big deal, I mean. You’re a big deal! I wasn’t talking about your dick.”
I grin, charmed by her adorableness. “You can speak about my cock anytime you’d like.”
She giggles a bit hysterically, looking up at the roof of the car. I suspect it’s so she doesn’t have to look at me. I push a button on the console, and the hardtop convertible lowers. As the stars come into view, she mutters disbelievingly, “How is this my life?”
I give her a moment and then offer, “How about if we go to dinner? Perhaps we can lessen your confusion by getting to know one another more. I truly would appreciate your input on the photos, but make no mistake of my desires.”
“And what are those?” Autumn ventures, her eyes falling from the beauty of the heavens to meet mine in the dim light from the dashboard lights.
“You. Any way I can have you,” I say bluntly.
“Well . . .” She drags it out, leaving me hanging on a hook. “I could eat.” She grins at me like the fox she is. Cunning creature. “And I haven’t seen much of Paris yet, so I’m thrilled to see anything beyond my block.”
“And?” I prompt.
More seriously, she answers, “And I’d like to get to know you too.”
We drive through the nighttime Paris streets, and true to her word, Autumn oohs and ahhs over nearly everything she sees, delighted at the architecture and quaint cafés. I know that my city is beautiful, all of her uglier sides hidden by the cloak of darkness and the dazzle of her lights, but seeing it through Autumn’s eyes makes me fall in love with my city all over again.
I turn on music, finding a song every French person knows, La Vie En Rose.
“I know this,” Autumn says in delight.
“It’s the perfect soundtrack for this.” I turn a corner and in front of us stands the Eiffel Tower, lit up in her golden glow.
Autumn gasps. “Oh, my God. It’s beautiful.”
“Millions of people come to see her each year because of her beauty, but tonight, her beauty pales to yours.”
“Wow,” she says breathily, her eyes falling to mine. I can see the reflection of the Tower’s lights in their depths, and the moment feels heavy with possibility.
A car horn honks behind us, and I have to focus on the roadway once again, but I don’t forget the look in her eyes. As we drive, I tell her little facts about Paris, as though I’m her tour guide. But I don’t mind because she seems thrilled by everything about my city.
We reach our destination, a favorite restaurant of mine called Chez Madeleine. There are few places left in Paris that are both classically French without being either tourist traps or pretentious garbage dumps. And sadly, there are too many of both. But Chez Madeleine is neither.
The exterior was once a bit garish, with pink-framed windows and hand-painted golden details, but both have faded with time. It’s not bad, as they are the original designs from when the restaurant opened decades ago. But now the building has a more subtle romantic feeling.