Page 4 of Marry Lies
But I don’t owe her a damn thing.
“Well, I should go,” she says quickly, looking at me. “Enjoy the rest of your stay in Paris. Hopefully it will be less eventful for your buttoned-up persona. Wouldn’t want you to spontaneously combust, after all.”
I open and close my mouth.The audacity—
“Doubtful,” I retort. “I loathe Paris.”
Now she’s looking at me like I murdered a brood of puppies.
“Bloody hell. Are you telling me there’s a person in existence who loathesParis? How is that possible?” she asks, astonished.
I let out a cruel laugh. “Bad memories. It was my mother’s favorite city, but my mother isn’t alive anymore, so it’s not like I can share it with her. And my father…” I snap my mouth shut.Why the hell am I telling her all of this?
She’s quiet, and when I look back at her, she’s still staring at me like she’s trying to figure me out. Her nose is slightly wrinkled, and her eyes are narrowed and disbelieving as they search my face.
“I can’t believe you just said you hate Paris,” she mutters.
My lips twitch. “Yes, well, we can’t all be romantics.”
She scoffs. “I’m far from a romantic. But the culture, the history, the people…”
“The culture is a marketing tactic by the French tourism board, the history is appealing, sure—but so is most of Europe—and the people are, as a whole, very rude,” I conclude, watching her face fall even further.
“Bollocks,” she utters, shaking her head. “Are you always so surly?”
I scowl down at her. “I’m not surly.”
She hollows her cheeks. “Whatever you say.”
“You don’t know me.”
Walk away, Miles. The bright, shiny toy is not worth it.
Crossing her arms, she arches a brow. “You’re wearing a Prada suit, Dior loafers, and your Cartier watch is obnoxiously expensive. I may not know you, but I know your type.”
I bite my tongue as I look down at my cufflinks, adjusting them to give myself a chance to retort. It takes a lot to ruffle my feathers, but when they’re ruffled…
“Do you often make assumptions about people you’ve just met?” I ask, my voice frosty.
She doesn’t cower or falter. Instead, she stands up straighter and glares right at me.
“Was I wrong?” she counters, glancing down at her painted nails as if she’s bored.Jesus, even her nails are bright fucking pink.“I happen to know a lot of blokes like you. London is full of them.”
I huff a laugh and shake my head. “You’re ridiculous.” Rubbing my neck, I glower down at her. “I hate to break it to you, but I’m probably worse than the men you know.” Her eyes widen slightly, and I enjoy the way she physically shrinks a bit at my words. “You seem to have me all figured out. So, tell me, who are you?” I ask, tilting my head.
She gives me that unsure look again. The one that makes me feel irrationally angry at myself for making her uncomfortable.
Fuck, what am I doing? Starting a fight with some woman in the middle of the night?
Just as I open my mouth to apologize, an older man walks up to us with an armful of bracelets to sell.
“No, thank you,” I tell him, grabbing the blonde’s arm and dragging her to the other side of the fountain.
“He probably saw your fancy watch from a mile away,” she says, laughing once we stop walking.
I clench my jaw when I stare down at her. “Right. And I’m sure he hardly noticed the naked woman,” I deadpan.
That shuts her up.
