Page 67 of Most Likely to Deny Love

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Both.”

I claimed her mouth, tasting the wine on her lips. When we broke apart, I held her gaze for a moment, then shifted to make room on my bed. Without hesitation, Mia slid over, fitting herself against my side like she belonged there. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders, drawing her closer.

“Mm, very nice,” she sighed, settling her head against my chest. Her hand came to rest over my heart, warm and perfect.

I wrapped my fingers around her hand, murmuring into her hair, “Just to be safe. I remember what happened last time we fell asleep together.”

She giggled, shifting against me, snuggling even closer. I let my hand drift from her waist, over her hip and lower until it rested possessively on the curve of her ass.

Mia let out a small gasp. “Maybe I should be the one holding your hands still.”

I pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “We’ll see who needs restraining in Paris.”

“Hmm.”

Mia’s breathing gradually slowed, her body relaxing against mine as sleep claimed her. I stayed awake longer, savoring the feel of her in my arms, the scent of her hair, the rightness of this moment.

As my own consciousness began to drift, one thought remained crystal clear: Tomorrow in Paris was going to be absolute fucking torture, until I could finally get Mia exactly where I wanted her.

Customs and immigrationflew by with surprising efficiency. The private car I’d arranged was waiting as we emerged into the mild Parisian morning, our luggage already collected and loaded.

As we headed closer to the center of Paris, Mia pressed herself against the car window, speechless, drinking in the city as it unfolded around us. Historic buildings in their distinctive cream limestone. Cafés with their chairs facing outward towardthe street. The occasional glimpse of the Seine between buildings.

“We’re just passing the Tuileries Gardens,” I told her as we drove alongside the manicured grounds. “And that—” I pointed as the iconic tower came into view, rising above the cityscape, “is just your first glimpse.”

Her gasp told me exactly what she was feeling. Her hand found mine, holding tight while she gazed wordlessly out the window. No matter what happened from here, this moment, right now, made everything worth it.

The car pulled up in front of Le Meurice, its Belle Époque elegance immediately drawing Mia’s attention. A doorman in an impeccable uniform approached as we stepped out, and a valet whisked our luggage away on a gleaming brass trolley.

“Jack,” Mia’s voice was barely audible as she stared up at the ornate entrance. “This place is...”

Words failed her as we stepped into the lobby, with its polished marble floors, soaring ceilings, and crystal chandeliers that refracted the morning light into scattered rainbows. I guided her to the discreet reception desk, keeping a hand at the small of her back.

The check-in process was seamless. Mia stood beside me, taking it all in with that same stunned silence, her eyes darting from the fresh flowers in massive urns to the antique furniture arranged in intimate seating areas.

“Your suite is prepared, Mr. Sullivan,” the concierge informed me with a slight bow. “Jean-Philippe will escort you.”

“Merci.”

A uniformed bellman led us to a private elevator. Mia’s reflection stared back at us from all angles, her face a mixture of wonder and disbelief. I watched her watching herself, savoring her reactions.

The elevator opened directly into our suite, and the bellman discreetly arranged our luggage before departing with a murmured “Merci, monsieur” and the softest click of the door.

Only then did Mia seem to find her voice again, as she turned in a slow circle to take in the spacious sitting room with its silk-upholstered furniture, the dining area with fresh flowers and champagne already chilling in a silver bucket, and beyond it all, the massive windows framing a view of the Tuileries and, in the distance, the Eiffel Tower.

“Um, Jack?” She finally broke her silence, her voice slightly strangled. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” I shoved my hands in my pockets, my eyes on her face rather than the view.

“Exactly how rich are you?”

I studied her face, trying to decide how to answer. Wealth was complicated for me. Always had been.

“Rich enough that I don’t have to think about money,” I finally said, moving toward the window where she stood. “But not so rich that I don’t work. My family has money—old money, investment banking, that sort of thing. But I’ve made my own.”

She watched me carefully, missing nothing. “And you don’t like talking about it.”

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