Page 40 of Closer

“Well, I suppose it depends on who it was written for.”

“For you, actually.”

She laughs softly. “Liar.”

“You got me.”

“So, a woman broke your heart—”

“How do you know it wasn’t a man? That seems a little gender bigoted.”

“A man then?” she asks with a question in her eyes.

“Maybe it was both,” I say, matter of fact, as I play a minor chord that hits me right where it hurts. “Maybe a man broke my heart by asking a woman to marry him. And a woman broke my heart by saying yes.”

“I’m confused.”

“Welcome to the club, princess,” I say and then grin. “How do you not know this? The whole world knows.”

“Perhaps not everything revolves around you. Perhaps you just think it does.”

I squint at her shadowy form in the dark. “Where did you come from?”

“Paris.” She rolls her tongue around the word and ends it with anreesound, rather than ans. Lust curls around the base of my spine and thickens my cock. I’ve fucked French women before, but none as enigmatic as Brielle Kagawa. Her arrogance is actually a turn on. I like that she’s probably the one woman in the world who won’t spread her legs for me. I’m sure I’ll come to hate it, given time, but then I’m also confident that I’ll wear her down. I have a way of growing on people.

Like mould.

I can still see that stubborn set of Ali’s jaw as she glared at me across the club, and then the way her lips parted in a grin as I fucked her at a Vegas party. My hands falter over the keys and I sit quietly, staring down at the ivory. I see her body splayed beneath Coop and me, between us.Always between us. I remember the way her hair smelled on her wedding day when I danced with her in their suite. Now Cooper is the only one who gets that. Who gets to feel her beneath him, who gets to smell her shampoo, and hold her, and I get nothing. Nothing but a pickled liver and an angry French girl.

“Levi,” Angry French girl says. I like the way my name sounds on her tongue. “You should go to bed.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“Non. It’s an order.”

I grin. I’m drunk, heartsore, and all kinds of fucked up. If I had any sense left, I might be embarrassed. Good thing I drank all my sense away.

“Come get some rest.” She holds her hand out to me, and I reach for it, but I miss. Brielle frowns, and helps me to my feet by placing her shoulder under my arm. She begins walking slowly down the hall and I walk with her. I’m just about to ask why she’s being so nice when she says, “In the morning she will still be married.”

I turn my head to glare at her, but it swims. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Non. Nothing will make you feel better, but sleep,” she says. “Some detoxification wouldn’t hurt either.”

“Sleep won’t fix shit,” I mumble. “As for drying out? Forget it. But fucking might.” I raise a finger as if making a point and stab the air between us.

“When has fucking ever fixed anything?”

“It fixes my boner.” We come to the end of the hall, and it’s tricky, but she manoeuvres us so she’s still supporting some of my weight while the stone wall takes the rest.

“Can you even get hard with this much liquor in your system?”

“I can get hard any place, any liquor, any time,” I slur as we reach the bottom stair and enter my room. “Want me to show you?”

“I really don’t.” She drops me on the bed and walks away.

“Brie?”

She turns. I can’t see her face, but she’s no doubt glaring at me. She’s always glaring at me. “What, Levi?”

“I’m not always this much of an arse.”

“We both know that’s not true.” I hear the smile in her voice, more than see it, because I can’t see a fucking thing in this room.

“You gotta stop that,” I warn. “I told you I like the mean ones.”

“And I told you, never going to happen.Dors, tu es fou, bel homme.”

“I don’t speak French.”

“I know,” she says and disappears up the stairs.

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