Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
I smile slowly. “Jo Button, you are a sneaky little genius.”
She beams under my praise. “We’ll give them some fine, strong whiskey, loosen their tongues. We’ll pretend we don’t know what paintings we have or what they are worth because Joseph didn’t catalogue them accurately, so we are going to get valuations done by Christies. And we’ll watch their reactions carefully. Even the best psychopath won’t be able to stop himself from betraying some sign of his guilt.”
I nod. “Sounds like a plan.”
Chapter
Thirty-Four
AXEL
The cab smells faintly of leather and stale cigarette smoke. Paris moves past us in streaks of gold and grey as the sun gives way to a shower of rain. I watch how the wet pavement reflects the wan sun. Scooters weave between the lanes of traffic. There are couples tucked into café corners. The driver has the radio on low, some soft French ballad humming under the engine noise. Jo sits beside me in the back seat, a coat folded neatly in her lap, her fingers loosely intertwined on top of it.
We’re on our way to the airport. Back to New York. Back to reality. Back to consequences. Neither of us has said much since we left the hotel. It’s not tension exactly. It’s awareness. The kind that sits between two people who know something has shifted and don’t dare to name it… yet.
We swore to leave Paris in Paris, but...
I glance at Jo’s profile. The city lights catch in her dark hair, turning it silk black. She looks thoughtful, and she is definitely being quieter than usual.
“Well,” I say casually. “The weekend wasn’t a complete waste of time.”
She turns her head slowly, one eyebrow arching. “Oh?”
The corner of my mouth lifts. “I achieved something.”
“And what would that be, exactly?”
I look at her fully now. “I made you fall in love with me.”
I wait for it expectantly. The laugh. The eye roll. The scoff. The sarcastic retort. One of them, or maybe all of them. Jo Button does not miss an opportunity to humble me. But she doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t roll her eyes. She doesn’t argue or call me ridiculous. Instead, she blushes. It’s subtle. A faint bloom of pink rising along her cheekbones. Her gaze drops to her hands.
And my stomach tightens. Because that is not embarrassment or annoyance. And that is definitely not amusement. That is the truth. For a moment. I just stare at her, something slow and electric spreading through my chest. Could it be that she actually feels something for me, something that won’t, can’t be left behind in this old city?
Then she inhales like she’s steadying herself. “Relax, Axel, I knew it was a joke. I was playing along,” she says quickly.
No, she wasn’t. Not entirely. My hand lifts before I consciously decide to move it, and my fingers brush her jaw. Her skin is warm in the cool Paris air. She freezes for half a heartbeat. Then she turns her face towards my touch. Her eyes lift to mine. There’s no mockery in them. No deflection. Just vulnerability; raw and unguarded and terrifyingly real. I search her expression.
“Tell me to stop,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t. Her lips part slightly. That’s all the permission I need. I lean in and kiss her. It’s not playful. It’s not teasing. It is as if this is really the last time I get to kiss her, and I want her to remember this kiss forever. I kiss her deeply and passionately, as if every movement of my lips on hers is going to be the last.
The world narrows away to the softness of her mouth and the way she exhales against me. For a split second, she hesitates, not in doubt, but in surprise, and then she’s kissing me back. Fully.
Her hand slides up to my collar, her fingers curling into the fabric like she needs something to anchor her. I pull her closer, my other hand sliding to the back of her neck, holding her close. The kiss is slow, searching yet certain. This isn’t just heat. This isn’t lust. This is something else entirely. It is my way of telling her all of the things that my words can’t say at this moment. The tension melts into something fiery. Her thumb brushes the edge of my jaw, and I feel it all the way down in my bones.
The driver clears his throat up front.
I don’t move, but Jo lets out the smallest breath of laughter against my mouth before pulling back just enough to look at me. Her pupils are blown wide. Her cheeks are still flushed.
“That was the perfect way to end our time here,” she whispers. “The perfect way to cross the line one last time.”
She’s talking about the line we drew in that hotel room when we agreed that what happens in Paris stays in Paris. I have no intention of honoring that agreement. And something in her eyes tells me she doesn’t either, despite her words. I brush my thumb along her cheek and kiss the tip of her nose.