Page 122 of Bottles & Blades

His hand comes to my jaw, and he tilts my face up. “Seeing Paris through your eyes”—he leans in, rests his forehead against mine—“is beautiful.Yougave me that. Spending these last couple of weeks with you, learning you,lovingyou, is even more so. I’ve been lonely, baby. For so fucking long that I didn’t think I would evernotbe. But you made that go away.”

My heart is pounding in my chest and there are a thousand things I want to say to him.

But all I can get out is a soft, “Jean-Mi.”

He’s still talking.

“And you give me more than that,” he says, lifting his head and gently stroking his fingers through my hair. “You give me a smart, sweet, kind, funny, and beautiful woman who sees me asme—not as a checkbook, not as a man with connections to exploit. You give me you, and all you expect is me. Just me.”

“Honey, I?—”

His big hand cups my jaw. “So, if you even think—with you giving me all of that—that I’m not going to do every fucking thing in my power to give you all of your dreams—big and small and in between—then you’re going to learn differently, baby.” His thumb traces along my cheek. “Even if it takes me a lifetime to teach it to you.”

“Honey,” I whisper again, the tears slipping free despite my best efforts, sliding from my lashes, dripping down my cheeks. “You’re being too sweet.”

He wipes them from my skin, leans close, mouth curving. “I love you. From the moment I met you, I knew you were special. I know it’s fast. I know it’s too much. But I don’t give a fuck. You’re it, buttercup, and I’m not letting you go.”

My lungs hitch, but I manage to give voice to the words in my head, the words I feel with every fiber of my being. “I love you too.” I cover his hand with my own. “But I don’t need any of this—the trips, the jet, the beautiful apartment overlooking the city. I just need you—your time, your heart, your words that sing to every part of me.”

“Now who’s being sweet?” he teases softly.

But I see how deeply he’s feeling this.

Because I’m feeling the same exact way.

“You are, Jean-Mi.”

“I know.” He grins, picks up the baguette and breaks off another piece, passing it over to me. “And there’s more to come.” A nod at the bread. “So you’d better fuel up.”

Thirty-Eight

Jean-Michel

I hadn’t lied.

There was more to come.

A cruise on the Seine. Dinner at Benoit.

And now we’re doing the most Paris thing ever—cramming ourselves into a tiny elevator to make our way to the top of the Eiffel Tower.

Tomorrow we’ll head to the Palace of Versailles, another must see.

Monday I’ll take her shopping in the 1stArrondissement.

I can’t wait to see what kind of fight she puts up when I buy her something she likes but thinks is too expensive.

And I can’t wait to see her face when I take her to the spa Marie booked for her.

She’ll have an afternoon of pampering while I sit my ass in the sauna and catch glimpses of her in just a robe.

Perfect.

Though, Marie better have booked a female masseuse or there will be hell to pay.

Am I feeling more than a little possessive?

Yup.

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