Page 30 of Meet Hate Love
He obviously wasn’t as horrible of a person as I wanted to believe, although I’d love to see Vance explain his way out of the whole him calling me easy thing. Maybe he was a nice guy, but there was still the stench of arrogant asshole wafting around him… And I clung to that like a life raft in a turbulent sea.
After we’d finished at the Louvre, we passed through the flower-filled Tuileries Gardens on our way to the metro. Vance rattled off the rest of the day’s itinerary while I took pictures of the statues in the greenery. I turned to frown at him when he mentioned wanting to tack on a military museum—who came to Paris to go to a military museum? Just as my gaze met his, the sun rolled out from behind the clouds, catching tiny golden flecks embedded in his green irises. I swooned a little. There was no denying the man was pretty, but my admiring him didn’t mean I had a thing for him. At all. Because that would be absurd. No. It would be preposterous. Just like ignoring those flecks in his eyes would have been.
“Blake?” Vance waved his hand in front of my face. “Do you want to go with me or what?”
Yesterday, had he asked me if Iwantedto do anything with him, my answer would have been a hard and fast no. Now I’d found myself unsure. Possibly leaning a little more toward yes.
He frowned. “Why do you look shocked?”
Because I was in shock. I had thirteen more days with this sharp-jawed bastard, and based on the current trajectory, instead of finding poison ivy at a local flower shop and rubbing it on his pillow at night, I was afraid I was going to end up drunk-banging him. And drunk-banging was how two out of the three horrible relationships I’d been in had started. A little prosecco or chardonnay and my inner sex fiend pulled an Incredible Hulk move.
I definitely could not drink around him, and what a travesty that was. I was in France. The wine capital of the world. Enjoy the wine or enjoy regret from doing the nasty with my work enemy. Shit. He’d asked me a question, hadn’t he?
“Why would I be shocked?” I said, the pitch of my voice a little too high. “I’m not shocked. I’m just—”
“This look—” Vance’s eyes widened to the point they looked like they were about to shoot out of their sockets like a cartoon character—“absolutely says shocked.”
I waved a dismissive hand at him before taking a random photo of tulips. “No, that’s me trying to force myself not to give in to the jetlag.”
He gave an incredulous look. Okay, so it was a horrible lie, but points for creativity.
“We don’t have any more ticketed items until the Eiffel Tower,” I said. “Why don’t we just go do our own things? You can set your timer and flit from one site to the next while I meander around the city.” And I could try to convince myself why fucking him on the trip was a bad idea. Reason number one, his bedpost probably had so many notches it looked like termites had ravaged it.
Pressing his lips together, he shoved a hand into his pocket. And if I needed any more of a push to spend the rest of the afternoon away from him, that sexy, concerned, I will-alpha-you stance right there was it.
I placed a hand on my hip. “If you’re looking at me like that because you think I can’t manage walking around Paris by myself, just stop.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Your face did,” I said.
“It’s jetlag…” He smirked, and for the first time since his New Year’s party, I didn’t hate it.
* * *
After I’d splitup from Vance, I went back to thepâtisserieand grabbed that eclair.
I had been right. It was delectable. Airy and super chocolatey. And wandering the city had been exactly what I’d needed to clear my head. By the time I’d checked off the Arc de Triomphe, Trocadéro, one of the flower markets, Notre Dame, and Shakespeare and Company, I’d come up with three solid reasons not to get drunk and possibly hook up with him.
1. Probable slut puppy.
2. Sleeping with a coworker is like shitting where you eat.
3. Having to sit across the conference table from someone who knows what my orgasm face looks like would be awkward as hell.
Those reasons were why, instead of ordering a nice glass of champagne when I’d sat down at one of the terrace cafés to watch the sunset behind the cathedral, I ordered sparkling water. Not that I expected the no-drinking thing to last long but gold star for effort, right?
Closing my eyes, I listened to the tinker of glasses mixed with the conversations in French. Then my phone rattled on the metal bistro table.
(205) 555-9072: The tickets for the Eiffel Tower are in half an hour. See you soon…
“Shit…” I’d completely lost track of time. I had no idea where I was in relation to the Eiffel Tower, but how far could I be?
I swiped off the text thread, pulled up my map, and clicked on the directions.Twenty-eight minutes.Okay, sothatfar. Great!
How did you get my number?
(205) 555-9072: I texted Margot
