He rose with a blink, shoving the box back between her clothes.
Why did he keep losing his grip over everything going on here?
He opened his closet and jerked out another suitcase, mentally forcing Mila back into the realm of sisterly affection. He quickly packed everything he needed for Brussels.
After he’d placed his suitcase with his laptop bag at the front door, he strolled back through the empty lounge, searching through the windows. Mila still sat on the terrace, her hair pulled loose from her ponytail and hanging over the back of the chair. She sat so quietly, she appeared mesmerized.
With a shrug, he walked to the bedroom, popped the sleeping pill he’d left on the bedside table, and got under the covers.
He couldn’t get comfortable and ended up with his hands cradling his head, staring at the skylight.
He hadn’t seen Mila for over twelve years. It was an easy calculation. Mila’s parents had severed the cord between Stacey and Mila the moment the sordid details of his mom’s affairs had erupted to the surface. The whole business had been quite a spectacle and the gossipmongers had revelled in the details that had seeped into society over the weeks. It had been like watching a fucking soap opera in which he played the minor role of the whore’s son. Nothing had been news to him, simply a rerun of the same show he’d been watching for years.
Mila came into the room, one arm crossed over her breasts, clutching her elbow tight. Their eyes met across the dark space.
“You’re good?” she murmured, inching closer to the other side of the bed.
“Yes.” Inside him, he could feel the sleeping pill working, relaxing every tense muscle.
“It’s cold in here now.”
“Get under the covers.” He gave her a surreptitious inspection. That wash-worn nightie might as well be non-existent. “If you’re still cold, we can adjust the air conditioning.”
She got into bed, her breathing strained as she turned her back to him.
He should dismiss her too, but he couldn’t. Not quite yet. “We haven’t seen each other for ages—I reckon it’s more than twelve years,” he said into the heavy silence.
“You did leave,” she murmured into her pillows.
He had no response to that. He had had to leave; the whole universe had wrenched him away from home. It had been the best decision at the time and he’d never regretted leaving. Over the years his visits home had reduced to none. He’d preferred to see Stacey and his dad off home territory.
“You weren’t at my mom’s funeral.” He should have seen her there, six years ago, the last time he’d been home.
She stirred and turned to face him. “I…”
“You knew about the accident?”
“Yes.”
Everybody had known. Towards the end, his mother had done nothing quietly. Least of all her parting from this world.
“My dad did the funeral, James. Of course I knew.”
He smirked and uttered a bitter, flippant sound. “He refused to do the service, initially.”
“What?” She propped on her elbow. “Did he? Refuse?”
The shock in her voice vibrated through him. She wouldn’t have known. Mila’s dad wouldn’t have publicly refused to bury his mom. It had been a backhanded dispute between their fathers, a fight he was probably not supposed to be aware of either.
He sighed and wiped at his eyes. “Your dad insisted on a memorial service, as far away from his church as possible. I’m not sure how my dad convinced him.” His mind was grinding to a slow halt. “Despite everything, my dad still had to send her off in some proper way.” As he thought about it now it was more like his dad had gotten in the last laugh.
Her hand reached for him and soothed over his shoulder. The warmth of her touch was calming and he shifted on his side, slipping her hand into his. Her fingers were the perfect fit and she didn’t pull away.
“I’m so sorry, Jamie,” she whispered. “For your loss, for everything.”
“It’s okay, Princess,” he breathed, the last of the apprehension between them dissolving.
“They didn’t allow me to go to the funeral.” She spoke so softly he’d hardly heard her.
“Really?” How could he not have guessed?
“I wanted to be there… for Stacey, for you. But they stopped me.” Tears were shallow in the back of her throat, her emotions shredding him. That mother of hers wouldn’t allow her close to the Sinclairs, even at a time they’d needed comfort.
Tears from Mila were the last thing he wanted. Seeing her or Stacey like this always crushed him.
“Hush,” he said as he squeezed her hand softly, relishing the anchoring warmth. “We can’t go back there.”
“No.”
She edged closer, but there were still miles of space between them.
And he needed to keep it that way.
His alarm woke him up hours later and he muted it fast. Mila stirred against him. Her sweet, rounded ass pressed against his thigh and if he had the time and audacity to take this further… he’d only need to roll onto his side and cradle her in his arms. Things would fall naturally into place from there.
He sat up and swung his legs out of bed, away from her allure, needing to hide his reaction to her.
“You’re going?” she murmured.
“Yes. You stay right where you are, Princess.”
She chuckled, settling on her back. Her gaze found his. “I really missed you, James.”
It sounded as if they wouldn’t meet again for ages, as if this was good-bye. “You’ll see more of me soon enough.”
She tugged her pillow closer, scrunching it under her head. “When you’re back, you’re not leaving for somewhere exotic again?”
“Brussels is hardly exotic,” he teased. “I’ve taken some time off to deal with admin.” With Mila being here last night, he’d forgotten all about the shit he needed to sort out.
“Enjoy Brussels.”
He reached for her cheek and ran a finger along the soft curve to her chin. “Enjoy Paris.”
He shouldn’t have touched her, but he couldn’t stop himself.
chapter 7
Mila burrowed deeper into the covers and feigned sleep, the trail of James’s touch burning on her skin. Her whole body begged for more of his slow touch, spiced with more intent.
James moved around the room noiselessly, only the shower’s splatter disturbing the early-morning quiet. When he came out of the bathroom, she peeked at him. He’d dressed and was pulling on his suit jacket.
“Sorry I woke you.”
“Comes with the territory,” she sighed. She was in his bed, after all, missing the feel of him next to her.
“Everything opens much later in Paris,” he said. “You can catch two more hours of sleep.” He paused and took a breath. “And don’t ship off to go somewhere else while I’m gone, okay?”
“Don’t worry, James Sinclair, I’ll be right here when you come back.”
He gave her a slow grin. “I rather like you right here, where you are now.”
Heat spread through her body and her cheeks caught fire. There was no doubt where the conversation was going. Was he flirting with her?
“Don’t get too used to it,” she murmured. “I’ve got places to see, people to do.”
His eyes widened and that seductive smile of his tugged at the corners of his mouth.
Something had sounded off. Her words chased through her mind. Heavens, did she really just say that? Those words had come out all wrong but she couldn’t pinpoint where.
He adjusted his tie and headed for the door with a laugh. “Easy does it, Princess. I’d hate to see you get hurt in Paris. Under my watch.”
“Oh, be gone with you!” She grabbed a pillow and flung it in his direction.
He caught it nimbly and laughed as he tosse
d it right back at her. “We’ll catch up later.”
She swallowed involuntarily. “Whatever. Bye.”
He was gone, his footsteps ringing down the corridor and echoing from the empty lounge.
She gathered his pillow closer and plopped it on her face. Her embarrassment sat so shallowly, she didn’t want to breathe.
She tried to fall asleep again but it was useless. After twenty minutes of rolling around, wondering what she was going to do with the empty itch that lounged in her body, she got up, stripped, and went to the bathroom.
The scent of James’s cologne teased her, and she inhaled deeply as she stepped into the shower. It was a good thing he’d left so early and had a reason to leave. After her stupid slip of the tongue things could have gotten interesting.
Places to go, people to see. Do didn’t even feature in there. Heaven only knew what James thought of her now.
She let the water run over her body, turning her face to the showerhead. She was exhausted, not used to sleeping with an air conditioner on or with someone next to her.
Not just someone. James.
His words had her blinking in the darkness long after he’d fallen asleep. Her dad, Pastor Johnson, had actually refused to do the funeral service for James and Stacey’s mom, Cecile Sinclair.
She couldn’t believe it, and yet… her dad was prim to the brim. Her dad might be religious, but he was judgmental to the bone. Her mother was even worse.
That her dad had been so self-righteous had made her battle with anger, but she’d had to contain every emotion as she’d listened to James’s rhythmic breathing. How could her dad have done something so callous?
Her parents had never taken to the Sinclairs because they weren’t churchgoers. Despite her friendship with Stacey, despite James coaching all her brothers at some point at the school where he’d volunteered while he still played rugby. That had been ages ago.
She took up the soap and lathered herself down, but nothing could rinse away the memories that had been lurking in the back of her mind. None of them were pleasant. Had bumping into James set them all loose?
Apparently, Cecile had had many affairs and had gotten away with all of them. James and Stacey’s dad never filed for divorce. That was all Mila knew, but if she’d wanted to eat up the gossip she’d have had her fill a million times over. Mila had cut it all off, for Stacey’s sake. Not that it would have mattered since her parents had moved her to another school—away from the unsavory influence of Stacey Sinclair—and they didn’t see each other for years until they reconnected at university.
It was clear to Mila now, the moment in which the rift between her and her parents had started. When they’d refused to let her be friends with Stacey anymore. Some things were just meant to be. Her friendship with Stacey had become a lifeline these past few years. Stacey had prompted Mila to change her studies and had supported her through every difficulty at home. Stacey might have turned out as wild as Cecile Sinclair, but Mila wasn’t going to judge her for it. Mila looked out for Stacey, and Stacey looked out for her.
The stronger her friendship with Stacey had grown, the bigger the rift back home gaped. And she couldn’t take it anymore.
She got out of the shower and rubbed herself dry. Why did everything go back to her parents? Her mom and dad had a mean streak in them, despite being devout Christians. That mean streak had been aimed at her so many times, subtly, shrewdly, that she was only able to see it for what it was once she’d rebelled and changed her studies to suit her, and not her parents. Then the mean streak came out in full force.
Being away from home was balmy, if not pure bliss.
Maybe she was naïve. Everybody had their faults.
Mila wrapped the towel around her body and walked to the bedroom. She picked up her backpack and pulled out clothes from the cavity with disinterest. The packet of condoms tumbled around until she’d emptied the backpack. Then it stared at her with a naughty grin. Stacey’s parting gift. The Starter Pack Stacey had called it.
Mila chuckled as she tossed the box on the bedside table. The Starter Pack wasn’t going anywhere soon. The museums in Paris awaited, and being up so early, she might as well walk to the D’Orsay, first on her list, and get to see Paris wake up.
chapter 8
James stared at the number on his phone, newly saved. Mila Johnson. He’d had to nag Stacey the whole day for Mila’s number, but Stacey hadn’t answered her phone or read his messages. At last she’d let him know that she’d been studying.
Ha. He bet she was studying her butt off.
Day from hell didn’t quite describe the mental tossing and turning he’d been doing over Mila. When the deal was signed and sealed sooner than he’d anticipated, there was nothing left to do but to have dinner with the relevant parties.
It was wrong, but he’d cut dinner short as soon as politely possible.
James pocketed his phone, took up his unnecessary suitcase and boarded the train for Paris. Given half a chance he always slept in his own bed. He couldn’t help it if said bed was occupied by a gorgeous brunette who’d also occupied his mind and bulged his dick the entire day.
He shouldn’t, but honestly? If she was going to explore Paris, do Paris, then she might just as well start at home. And stay at home. The idea of Mila working her way around his arrondissement gave him the creeps.
An hour and a half of itchy fingers later, he exited the train station and hailed a taxi. In the current traffic, it would only take him ten minutes to get home.
James leaned back in his seat and forced himself to wait. It was the first time in months that he had had any interest in a woman and he couldn’t let her slip through his fingers. After a night—or a few—spent with Mila, life might return to normal. Whatever that was.
The taxi stopped in front of his block and he paid the driver, grabbed his luggage and got out of the taxi. Outside the double street doors that led into the apartment block, he paused to take his jacket off.
He punched in the code and entered the lobby. It was empty and he dialed Mila’s number, his heart skipping a beat in the anticipation of talking to her. Dirty. He needed to test that honeyed tongue of hers to see what witticism she’d come up with, with those sweet, fuckable lips.
After two rings she answered. “Hello?” Her voice was husky, doused in sleep.
“It’s James.” He rubbed the frown lines on his forehead with his thumb. What the fuck was he doing? It wasn’t that late. Was she sleeping already?
“James?” She gave a soft chuckle. “How’s Brussels? Sprouty?”
He chucked. “Brussels is signed and sealed.”
“Well done.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m right where you left me this morning.”
“Hmm…?” He ran a finger around his collar. Here we go… she was much quicker than he’d anticipated. “In bed?”
“You did say I should stay right where I am.”
She was a tease. He could be a tease too. “The entire day? What did you do with yourself in bed the whole day, Mila Johnson?”
She breathed into the phone, a little laugh escaping. “Don’t be silly. I went to the D’Orsay and now my feet are killing me.”
“Sounds like you need a foot massage.” He tugged his tie loose and shoved it in his pocket.
“Sounds about right.”
“Anybody there to help out?”
“With a foot massage?” she murmured. “No.”
“You’re alone?” Instead of waiting for the lift he took the stairs two at a time.
“Of course I’m alone. I don’t know anybody in Paris.”
Good. He planned to keep it that way.
“You really shouldn’t be.”
“What?”
“You really shouldn’t be alone in Paris, Mila.”
“Wasn’t exactl
y my plan either,” she said, then sighed into the phone. “What are you doing tonight?”
“I’ve eaten the obligatory dinner with the bond folks. Now I’m off to bed.” He fished his apartment key from his jacket pocket and pushed it into the lock and twisted.
“Oh. Wait—”
Through the line, he could hear that she was moving.
“There’s someone at the door.” Her tone was edged with concern.
She was more awake than the evening before. She hadn’t heard a thing the previous night. He tried not to smile too widely. “Really?”
“Oh God. James!” she whispered. “Who’s got keys to your apartment?”
“Only me.” He stepped into the foyer, took the few steps into the lounge and met her wide-eyed gaze as she froze mid-stride.
She wore a white tank top and white cotton panties. Not a sign of that innocent Hello Kitty nightshirt. Her hair fanned loose over her shoulders. She had her glasses on, looking bewildered. The devil himself couldn’t help him now.
“Stop doing that!” she reproached. “Two nights in a row! I feel like vomiting my heart out.”
He laughed as he dropped his things to the side. “Please don’t!” He took a tentative step closer. “Now you’re no longer alone.”
She didn’t look away, didn’t even blink behind those black frames. The glasses suited her, but he was looking forward to stripping her bare and he’d start with them.
“I’m here to give you a foot massage.” Bar asking for sex outright he couldn’t muster a more straightforward invitation.
“A foot massage?” she breathed, her hands swiping down her tank top. “I might just take you up on that.”
Sweaty palms much, Miss Johnson? “Might just?”
Her face was flushed, maybe from the shock of him barging in on her again, or maybe because she understood his meaning exactly. Fuck it, she was too sweet.
“That depends,” she chuckled. “My feet are all blistered and if I have to stand for another second—”
The Paris Apartment (Love Nests Book 1) Page 3