Page 23 of Bitter Prince
“How did you swap out the cars?” I asked. “You’ve been in the studio the entire time.”
He opened the passenger-side door and threw my bag in the back seat. “Coming?”
I let out a frustrated breath at his non-answer and made my way to him, slipping inside. The warm, masculine scent instantly made my pulse flutter. When he joined me in the driver’s seat and shut the door, the scent only became stronger, invading all my senses. It made my mind fuzzy and that sweet spot between my legs throb.
My cheeks warmed, acutely aware of my attraction to him as I secured my seat belt.
Clueless as to what was going on with me, Amon put the car in drive and pulled away.
* * *
He didn’t speak as we rode in his car. In my mind, we were having a million conversations, and the childish part of me wanted to impress him, so I kept going through topics that would make me look more mature in his eyes.
Not the underage girl that he’d called me.
So I pulled up my phone and scrolled through everything Japanese. A mini-crash course. I knew about kanji symbols from my mother’s necklace, but that was about it.
When we stopped at a red light, he glanced over. “What do you want to eat?”
My lips curved up and I couldn’t help a happy grin.
Putting my phone away, I answered, “Whatever you’re up for.” He returned his attention to the road and uncertainty once again made its way up my spine. I hated feeling this unsettled, exposed, insecure. “You’re going to eat too, right?”
He made a sharp right and entered a gated parking area. “I’m certainly not going to sit and watch you eat.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to stop a giggle escaping. I commended myself on my smart comeback earlier, because it clearly worked. He parked the car and jumped out, and before I could unbuckle my seat belt, he was already around the car, opening my door.
“Thanks,” I murmured, taking his outstretched hand. His fingers wrapped around mine, strong and warm, and deep inside, I wished he’d hold my hand all the way to the restaurant. Stupid and silly? Yes, but I couldn’t help my romantic notions.
The moment we started walking, he released my hand and my heart sank. Quickly and deeply. The disappointment was stronger than it should have been.
No matter, I told myself. If he didn’t like me, he wouldn’t be taking me to a restaurant.
We headed down a street with small shops, French music, and half a dozen little cafes. I kept eagerly looking around for what restaurant he’d chosen. This street was a ways away from my apartment, so it wasn’t often that I ventured into this part of Paris.
He stopped at a Japanese restaurant that I would have otherwise missed, its discrete markings and entrance hidden from the street. He held the door for me, and I walked into the restaurant to find it crowded. Stunned, I followed him through the narrow dining room. Small tables were pressed closely together, and in the far corner of the room, there was a bar written in Japanese hiragana, katakana, and kanji—the Japanese alphabet.
The mini-crash course paid off, I thought smugly.
I grabbed Amon’s forearm, my fingers wrapping around his solid muscle. He stopped, his eyes locking to where I touched him, then met my gaze as if to sayWhat are you doing?I didn’t care. I’d never been one to hold back or bottle my emotions, and I wasn’t about to start now. I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, but I struggled to keep my hands away from him, the connection between us tugging ever so gently.
I pointed to the bar and said, “Can you read me the bar menu?”
His dark brows furrowed. “Why?”
I blew out a frustrated breath. “So I’ll know Japanese names for cocktails,” I grumbled. “Why else?”
“You’re underage,” he retorted dryly, shaking off my hand. “Therefore, you can’t drink.”
“We’ll see,” I muttered under my breath. Then I flicked him a curious look. “How old are you anyhow?”
He didn’t even spare me a glance. “Twenty-three.”
“Hmmm, that’s a bit older.” He let out a sardonic breath and I tossed him a haughty look. “Not too old though,” I added quickly. “I’m practically eighteen.”
“Not yet, you aren’t.”
An elderly woman yelled out, spotting us, and our conversation came to a halt. Her eyes lit up and she rushed over, uttering words to Amon in Japanese that I didn’t understand. It sounded like a string of connected syllables. She pulled Amon—tall, intimidating Amon—by his shirt and, to my surprise, he let her pat his cheek affectionately. He smiled warmly, clearly knowing the woman and caring very much about her.
