Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“Speaking of my Captain Dude friend, any new pics?” She wiggles her fingers, beckoning for my phone.
“Don’t you just know the way to my heart,” I say, grabbing the cell from my pocket, ready to share. “This one came in today.”
I show her a picture of David and Zach jumping into the lake off a dock.
She sighs appreciatively as she studies it. “Do you wish you were there? I bet you do.”
That’s a tough question. “I do, and yet this is exactly where I want to be,” I say, meeting her pretty eyes as I answer.
“Me too,” she says softly, and moments later, the waiter brings our dishes. He sets a plate of herb-crusted salmon with sautéed asparagus in front of me. For Jules, a cauliflower steak. “From my list. Since I’ve never tried this before,” she says, slicing into the vegetable that’s been seasoned to look like steak.
She takes a bite and I ask, “How is it? Does it meet your expectations?”
“It exceeds them. And it’s extra spicy. Speaking of, do you still need to replace your chili flakes?”
I laugh, remembering that I’ve still forgotten. “I do. I will. I swear.”
She shifts gears, asking, “You said Zach came into your life several months ago, but did you always want to be a father?”
This is not first-date terrain, but we’re clearly well past small talk. Even though this thing between us can’t go anywhere, I’m already savoring how very different talking with Jules is from talking to my ex. She’s open, she’s real, she’s honest. “I did. I thought Marilyn did too,” I say, my jaw ticking as the memories of my marriage slam into me. “But I was wrong.”
“She didn’t want to after all?”
Setting down my fork, I bite off the bitter truth. “We both wanted to have kids a few years ago. Or so I thought. She told me she was off the pill for all those years.”
Jules turns pale, clearly knowing what’s coming.
“But,” I say, tightly, “she was actually on it the entire time we tried to have kids.”
“That’s terrible.” She clenches her fist on the table. “I hate that she did that to you.”
I love her fierceness. Briefly, I picture her being that way with Zach, protective and passionate. It’s a fantastic thought, but there’s absolutely no room for it in my life, so I shove it away. “But, on the other hand, I’m glad I didn’t have children with her. I just wish I had seen through her lies sooner.”
“It’s not your fault. People should be honest with each other,” she says.
“They should.” Even though I know I shouldn’t act like this is more than a first date, I’m a little helpless with Jules. This is not what I’d expected when I walked into The Scene a month ago, pretending I was someone else. Now I’m letting her see more of me, and wanting that. Fucking craving it. This is bad, but still I say, “That’s why I wanted you to know.”
My heart is beating faster for her, and I don’t even know what to do with this swell of emotion.
“You know what else was on my list?” she asks.
“Tell me.”
“Have dinner with a handsome…Frenchman or American,” she adds with a sexy smile.
Narrowing my eyes, I growl my disapproval. “You don’t belong with a Frenchman.”
Her lips curve up. “I don’t?”
“Not. At. All.”
Her smile deepens, turning more playful. “Are you sure?”
“You’re having dinner with this American. And only this American.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. That’s the item on your list. Dinner with me,” I say.
“Well, you are handsome and you are American, so it fits…But maybe I should add a bossy American?”
“Yes. You should.” Because I love that list and I want to do all the things on it with her.
When we finish eating, she’s quiet for a beat before she says, in a soft, sensual voice, “I brought something you gave me to Paris.”
Without hesitation, I say, “Let’s go.”
I pay, then we’re out of there.
24
APPROPRIATELY INAPPROPRIATE
Jules
I slick on some red lipstick then press my lips together, giving myself a once-over in the hotel room mirror. There, ready.
Well, I brought my stilettos. Guess I’m a hopeful girl.
I turn around, squaring my shoulders, letting my own love of dancing drive me as I step out of the bathroom, then stand in the doorway, arm sliding up the frame, hip cocked out, lips pouty.
Eyes on him.
A slow, sultry song fills my small room, and with the lamp dimmed, it feels like a smoky lounge in here.
And I feel like a different version of me. I’m the me in Paris. The me who goes clubbing. The me who doggedly chases opportunities.
I’m not the girl who hurt her family.
I left her in New York.
Finn’s parked in a burgundy chair across the room, legs spread, one arm slung across the back. The other hand holds a tumbler of amber liquid. His gaze is powerful as it locks on mine, eyes a dark emerald, full lips a hard ruler. He lifts that glass of scotch, taking his time, assessing my body, his confident pose making it clear he’s in charge as he studies me in the doorway.