Page 69 of It Happened In Paris

Brooks: Meet me in the bar for a drink. Let’s talk.

Me: About what?

Brooks: The fact that I miss you.

Me: Didn’t look like it when you danced all the slow songs with what’s her face.

Brooks: So you were watching me?

Brooks: Jealous?

Me: Hardly.

Brooks: You’re lying. She’s not the woman I want and you know it.

Me: Why do you think I danced with every man not you?

Brooks: To make me jealous, and it worked.

Brooks: Still there? Meet me.

Me: I’m busy.

Brooks: No. You’re avoiding me.

Me: I can’t go through this again.

Brooks: You miss me. Admit it.

Me: After New Year’s, I head back to the ship.

Brooks: I’m painfully aware of your schedule.

Me: Keeping tabs on me?

Brooks: Yes. Always. I’ll never stop until you’re mine.

That one took my breath away.

Me: Well, don’t.

Brooks: Meet me in the bar, look me in the eye, and tell me you don’t want me.

Every glance his way made my heart flutter, but I never made it to the bar. Denial was the name of the game if I expected to walk back on that ship. And Iwasabsolutely lying to myself if I thought I could attend this wedding and avoid feeling things for him again.

I shut off my phone and sighed, but it turned into an enormous yawn, exhausted from the day. It didn’t help that one week away from the research boat proved jarring to my system. I’d gotten used to the feeling of floating on the vessel, the slight rocking sending me to sleep each night. On solid ground in New York City, I was almost unsteady, and sleep eluded me all week. Shouldn’t be a problem tonight.

But as I stepped off the elevator, I teetered on edge in need of relief after reading our texts. Picturing Brooks so debonair in his tuxedo didn’t help matters, and I imagined hearing his deep voice in my ear saying everything he texted or the way hispossessive words struck me to my core the last time we were together. Definitely torturous.

I rounded the corner at the end of the hall and stopped short. No,thiswas torture.

Brooks leaned against my door with smoldering eyes. In one hand, he held a half opened bottle of tequila. In the other, over his shoulder, he held onto his tuxedo jacket. Around his neck, his bow tie hung with a few buttons undone, showing golden skin peeking through. And his forearms…oof.He’d rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, revealing taut muscles and veins.

Dammit. He looked as good to me now as he did on Buchanan Island over spring break—an unforgettable week together—but what a fiasco. I’d offered myself to him, my virginity, but he turned me down, wanting to wait until I returned from my year away. That led to an argument, and we failed to make up and find middle ground.

Then he proposed. I stood there on the precipice of my new, exciting career after college on a vessel exploring the world, and he asked me to stay and marry him? If he loved me, he wouldn’t have been so selfish like that. He should have respected me, supported me and my opportunity to advance in my career, and for that, I left after graduation and put distance between us and any lingering feelings for him.

Until now.

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