Plus, she’d never had one of those blown her way before.
When Mila came out of the en suite twenty minutes later the bed was made again and the bedroom empty.
She walked into the kitchen and James was there, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, his hair still rumpled. He placed croissants, layered with cheese and ham, and coffee on the counter.
“You can’t attempt the Louvre on an empty stomach,” he said, giving her the once-over.
“Just attempt?” she asked with a chuckle, pushing her glasses higher up her nose. Her protective gear was back on; she didn’t feel quite herself yet but was satisfied with this little barrier in the bigger wall she now needed to construct between herself and James Sinclair.
“A week won’t be enough for a first round of the Louvre,” he said and grinned as he pushed a plate towards her.
“You went to buy this?” The fridge had been empty when she’d arrived, and her meager purchases hadn’t done much to change the situation. The croissants smelled divine and she was ravenous.
“There’s a boulangerie across the street.”
“Thank you.” It had been sweet of him to think of breakfast and rush off to get it. No man had ever made her a meal of any sort. She was usually in charge, cooking for her family. She brought a croissant to her mouth, biting through the outer layer of crispy crust. She closed her eyes as the first wave of buttery sweetness hit her tongue and groaned. “This is the best croissant I’ve ever had,” she murmured between bites.
“Worth the flight here, isn’t it?”
She nodded, but when she looked up at him, James’s gaze was on her lips. He reached out and with the pad of his thumb brushed something from her bottom lip.
The touch was so sudden and intimate that it sent a wave of longing through her. He tipped back, retracting his hand, and a small crumb clung to his thumb. She wanted to lean into his hand and lick the crumb off, but he did it himself, not taking his eyes off her.
So much for that wall. This wasn’t part of their deal. The same thought hovered in his gaze.
James said nothing, but raised his coffee and took a long sip, still staring at her. She looked away. He busied himself with his own breakfast, and they ate in silence.
“I’ll make a plan.” He looked up as she finished her coffee. “About the bed.”
She didn’t want to think about the bed. She would have stopped time if she could have, but everything was hauling them in separate directions, as it should be.
“I should make a plan.” She was the intruder in his space.
“Don’t worry about it.” His tone told her to drop the subject. “If I’m not here tonight, don’t worry about me.” He set his cup on the table, and it clanged in the moment of weighty silence.
“You’re going to sleep somewhere else?” She swallowed at the croissant that clogged in her throat. She had no intention of ousting him from his apartment.
He shrugged, non-committal. “There are a few friends that will put me up until I get a couch sorted.”
“I’ve noticed the furniture is a bit sparse.” She meant it as a joke, but he didn’t laugh. She’d also noticed half the apartment was locked up, but it wasn’t her place to probe. “I can find space in a youth hostel.”
He said nothing as he took his empty plate and cup to the sink. “You’ll be okay here tonight, alone?”
He’d totally ignored her last words.
“Sure.” The atmosphere had shifted and she blamed herself. All she wanted to do was get back to the playful banter of before. It was her zone; this sticky discomfort with him was not where she wanted to be. Not after everything they’d shared. “Unless someone barges in on me. Again.”
“That won’t happen. Again.” His voice was steady, his back towards her as he rinsed the dishes.
No. It wouldn’t and it shouldn’t.
She gathered her plate and cup. “I’ll deal with this when I get back.” The air between them was laden with something she didn’t understand.
“I’ll catch you later.” He didn’t turn around to face her as he said it.
Which could mean anything. One thing was clear—she’d been dismissed. She might not see him again. Maybe she’d managed a hit and run. The notion tore through her chest, and she couldn’t get away quickly enough, because a knot constricted her throat, tears stinging behind her eyes.
chapter 15
James leaned over the sink. In the lounge, Mila was gathering her things, and seconds later the apartment keys jingled. The front door shut, echoing through the empty lounge to the kitchen.
He should never have touched her after she’d bitten into that croissant. What the hell had he been thinking? But those lips… and the emotions he’d felt earlier, which had been off his usual radar, had triggered him into stepping out of line.
He gripped the sink, containing the urge to rush after her and explain why the mood between them had polarized within a matter of seconds after he’d touched her. He couldn’t give her more than what they’d had that morning, and she wouldn’t want more. Not when she knew. And at that point in his thought process, Marlène might just as well have waltzed into the room. The question about the two locked rooms and the lack of furniture, which had hovered unspoken, had hung between them.
It hadn’t been Mila; it had been him. He’d been responsible for the shift between them. Anything that Mila knew about him and Marlène would have come from Stacey, and that couldn’t have been much. He’d been careful not to let his sister see too deeply into his life.
He should have pressed Marlène a lot harder when he’d offered to buy her share of the apartment months ago. If he hadn’t been so busy… but now Marlène’s locked rooms and silent presence had become like a tumor, quietly killing anything good around him.
The sudden strain had been unfair towards Mila, and with her thoughts going places, as he knew they did—with that little voice preaching away in her head—she’d be analyzing how their morning had concluded for the rest of the day, feeling shitty about everything by the end of it. That was the last thing she needed and the last thing he’d wanted for her.
He cursed as he tossed the tea towel to the side, leaving the kitchen as it was and rushing to his en suite.
He showered in double time, not wanting to lose her in the crowds that would stream to the Louvre that morning. If Mila thought she would get a shorter queue by getting there half an hour earlier, he had bad news for her.
The Louvre was close to his apartment, but the building was vast and the pyramid entrance took longer to reach. He lengthened his steps, noticing the queue as he rounded the corner into the court. He stopped short; she didn’t need to do it like this. He had connections at the Louvre. Someone could get her in first thing in the morning and take her on a tour if she wanted. At least get her in and let her make the most of her time, instead of wasting it like this.
He dug his cell phone out of his jeans pocket, making the call as he started stalking the queue, looking for her. She’d dressed in capri jeans with the legs rolled up, and a white T-shirt.
It didn’t take long to spot her near the end of the line; it was as if he was drawn to her, to her hair that was tumbling down her back, her butt, sweetly hugged in her tight jeans, and her bare arms, which he wanted circled around his neck. He recognized her body, its impression stamped on his, and he groaned as he stepped up to her.
“Mila.” He reached for her elbow, cupping it in his hand.
She looked up at his touch. “James.” She was pale, drained, with her eyes wide as she took him in.
“Are you all right?”
“I think your coffee was too strong this morning.”
He took her hand and tugged her out of the line. He’d served her decaffeinated coffee; it was the only stuff left in the apartment. He leaned over to whisper in her ear, “One doesn’t have two orgasms in
a row and rush off like that. One stays put, preferably in the arms of the man who took you there.”
Her eyes widened and she licked her lips as a blush rose deliciously to her cheeks.
“That brought back some color.” He grinned. “Come on.”
“Are you abducting me from the Louvre queue?” She was starting to resist by pulling him back towards her now-empty spot, where people were already shuffling to close the space.
“I know someone who works here as a curator. Clea is happy to let you jump the queue tomorrow.”
“Really? You’re that connected?” She dropped her gaze. “You can’t let me take advantage of your friends like that.”
Clea was hardly a friend-friend. But that didn’t matter much right now and he wasn’t going to explain any of it to Mila. “It’s just a favor. She’ll get you in first thing and you can go around the whole day by yourself.”
He guided her past the buzzing queue to the closest restaurant on the Rue Rivoli. On the sidewalk, the tables were packed with tourists and instead of finding a seat in the sunshine he took her inside, where it was darker and cooler. A waiter pointed from afar for them to sit down at a small rounded table, squeezed in close to a window.
As they sat down she avoided his gaze. “Thank you. I need some sugar or something.”
He searched her face. She needed more than a sugar high. She needed a debrief. “I shouldn’t have let you run from me this morning.”
“I didn’t run—” She broke off, fiddling with the saltshaker on the table.
You were so running, baby.
He sighed. Best get this explanation out smoothly. “Marlène—my ex—moved to New York when we broke up. She hasn’t had time yet to collect her things. I suspect she doesn’t have space for them in her New York apartment. All her furniture used to fill most of this apartment. Her stuff is locked up in the two other rooms.”
“Oh.” She glanced up at him but quickly looked away again. “You don’t need to explain your situation to me, James.”
No, he didn’t. But he wanted her to understand. “With all my travelling, it has been hard to resolve our household issues. Marlène’s busy too, working as beauty editor for American Vogue.”
“Stacey’s dream job.”
She was redirecting the conversation, and he was grateful she didn’t probe deeper… although, for the first time, he felt like he’d dealt someone an undeserved hand. He shrugged a non-committal yes. Marlène had somehow managed to get under Stacey’s skin in the dream-job department.
“Is it a hectic career? I mean… if she is so busy? Would Stacey be able to maintain a career like that?” Mila glanced at him.
“I don’t know. She first has to finish her studies.”
“She’s having a hard time. Finance isn’t going to get her a gig in beauty editing. I’m not sure if she really likes her courses… unless she pulls herself together it isn’t going to happen.”
“I know.” He kept a closer watch over Stacey nowadays, but nothing seemed to improve the situation.
“The amount of freedom your dad allows her doesn’t help. She’s messing around, failing, starting again, just for the sake of it.”
He frowned and looked at her. “Just for the sake of it?”
She hunched her shoulders up and dropped her gaze as if she’d spoken out of line. “Comes across as spoilt, to be honest, and such a waste of time and money.”
He cursed inwardly. Their dad had stopped paying for Stacey’s studies after she’d started failing subjects twice in a row. His dad had been lenient, but he’d drawn the line for Stacey there. James had picked up the tab, telling Stacey that he wouldn’t do more for her than lend the money, which she should pay back. But he’d written the money off.
“Our dad only wants Stacey to be happy,” he said defensively, wanting to justify his own actions.
“She’d be happier if someone made her stop messing around. It only makes her feel… uncared for.”
He stared at her. Uncared for? He’d do anything to make Stacey feel cared for—not like the unwanted after-effect of a night of misplaced passion between their father and mother. He could hardly see how paying for Stacey’s studies had anything to do with her messing around or feeling cared for.
Or had it? It was an unwanted reality he’d never considered. Stacey hadn’t been the same since their mom’s death and he didn’t know how to deal with her.
Hopelessness twined with an irrational loathing and yanked at his guts. Was he being weak? Like his dad? That Mila was right about Stacey needing a firmer hand was something he couldn’t admit. What if he had been adding fuel to the fire?
A waiter approached them and James took the menus from him, wanting desperately to change the conversation. “What do you usually have for breakfast?”
“A kale smoothie. And poached eggs.” The disgust in her voice sat shallow and he chuckled.
“Not a high-fat, high-protein butter bomb like the one you had this morning? With caffeine to chip away at the cholesterol in your veins?”
She laughed. “I wish, but that’s not in my brothers’ diet prescriptions.”
He hitched his eyebrows at her. “Your brothers? You live with one of them?”
“I live with most of them. Still at home.”
She still lived with her folks? Mila was the squashed sandwich filling between four brothers. Two older, two younger. No doubt all of them kept an eye on her, making sure no unsavory elements came close to their beautiful sister. No wonder she’d still been a virgin. And at twenty-four she was still under her parents’ roof, probably being the perfect little housewife to a bunch of bullies.
“And how does that work out for you?” he rasped, not knowing what else to say.
She gazed into his eyes as her hands stopped fiddling, but they were trembling as she dropped her gaze.
“No need to sugarcoat it for me, Mila.”
“I hate it.”
He shifted in his chair as the waiter approached their table. In true French style, the waiter swiftly corrected Mila’s rearrangement of the salt and pepper pots, impatient to take their order.
James ordered two espressos and some pastries to get rid of the man.
She was gazing at him when he let go of the menus, but when he met her eyes his heart, which had started to speed up, banged on the wall of his chest. She’d been opening up to him, and now… her eyes were too moist. She’d been on the verge of crying before the waiter had interrupted them. He squashed the urge to cover her hands with his.
“You speak French.” She didn’t contain her shocked admiration.
“It rubs off on you, eventually. I’ve been living in Paris for more than seven years.” He didn’t want to talk about himself. Her comment about his father and Stacey had already been too much, too spot-on, but he’d made it worse by digging into the truth of it. Stacey should stop messing around, and his dad was doing nothing about it, only wanting his little girl to be happy. And somehow he’d ended up doing the same. Nothing they could do or give would ever make up for losing their mom.
It was slippery ground, especially with Mila’s eyes that didn’t hide anything from him as they silently sought the truth from him. She was as open in her mind as she’d been with her body earlier that day. He raked his hands through his hair, mentally shrugging her comments off.
“Why do you still live at home?” Such a situation would drive him nuts.
“It’s practical.” She didn’t elaborate.
He could just imagine how practical that would be—moneywise. “But suffocating?”
She swallowed but made no comment.
He had to change the topic. “Jake and Joshua still play for the Springboks?”
“Johnson and Johnson,” she said with a smirk but took up the saltshaker again.
The famous front rowers of the South Afri
can Rugby Team, Jake and Joshua had not been battered and beaten yet. He’d lost track of the rugby world since getting out of the game years ago. He still watched the occasional match but it wasn’t his sole existence anymore. Something he’d been secretly thankful for. There had been more to life for him than an obsession with a sport. He would have made the most of a career had it taken him on that path, but the broken bodies most of his older rugby cronies lived with made him relieved that he’d gotten out early with a good excuse of two messed-up knees.
“The other two?”
“Ruben and Ben are both playing provincial and trying to break into the squad.”
“I’m not sure the sports commentators can deal with two more Johnsons on the team.”
“Neither can I.” Her voice broke and her hand wiped at a wisp of her hair, tucking it behind her ear. On her cheek, her swift movement had left the trail of a tear.
She was crying. His stomach tightened at the sight.
“Fuck it, Mila,” he said softly. “What’s this?” He shouldn’t hug her, but he reached out and pulled her to him. She belonged in his arms, right now, nowhere else. “Ssh,” he tried to soothe her, but now that the gates were open, the tears were flowing.
The morning had been too much, and he suppressed a sigh as he shifted to gather her even closer to him. He’d been an asshole for not making her stay in bed with him, for not forcing her to let him take care of her as he should have after their intense sexual experience. He’d needed to be with her, but between their jokes, her urge to be gone, and their little just once deal, he’d let her go. He’d thought it for the best but it had been another fail. She wasn’t a one-night stand going home and she hadn’t known what she was signing up for. When was he going to get it right with her?
He grazed his lips against her temple, ignoring the waiter as he placed their order on their table. Her hand sidled up to his chest, and he pressed his own over hers, letting her feel the erratic beating of his heart, which for some reason didn’t want to find its regular rhythm that day.
The Paris Apartment (Love Nests Book 1) Page 9