“No,” I admitted. “Money’s always been... contentious in my family. My father thinks I’m wasting my potential doing corporate rescue work instead of joining the family business. My trust fund sits mostly untouched.” I shrugged, surprised at how easily the words came with her. “I prefer earning what I have.”
“So this,” she gestured around the opulent suite, “is your money, not family money?”
“Yes. But it’s just a hotel room, Mia. A nice one, but still just a room.”
She laughed, the sound bright and genuine. “Just a room? Jack, this place is bigger than my entire house. The bathroom probably has its own zip code.”
I moved closer, drawn to her like a magnet. “You deserve nice things.”
Her smile softened, vulnerability flashing in her eyes. “No one’s ever done anything like this for me before.”
That simple confession twisted something in my chest. I closed the remaining distance between us, cupping her face in my hands.
“Then they were all goddamn idiots.”
I kissed her then, a kiss meant to erase every doubt, every insecurity, every moment anyone had made her feel less than extraordinary. She melted into me, her body soft and pliant against mine. My hands slid from her face, down her neck, over her shoulders, itching to explore further.
With superhuman effort, I pulled back before I could forget all the plans I’d made. Her breathing was as ragged as mine, her lips slightly swollen from our kiss.
“As much as I’d like to continue this,” I managed, my blood already humming, “I promised to show you Paris.”
“Paris will still be there later,” she countered, her hands fisting in my shirt.
Christ, she was making this difficult. I pressed my forehead against hers, breathing in the scent of her.
“Put on comfortable shoes,” I said firmly, mostly to remind myself of my own plan. “I want to show you the city properly before I take you to bed and make you forget your own name.”
Her sharp intake of breath was almost my undoing. “That’s playing dirty, Sullivan.”
“I never claimed to fight fair.” I stepped back before my resolve crumbled entirely. “Shoes. Coat. Five minutes.”
The look she gave me as she moved toward her suitcase promised that tonight would be worth every second of waiting. Paris had better be fucking spectacular today, because unless it literally took my breath away, all I’d be thinking about was getting Mia back to this room.
MIA
The Parisian morning air felt different somehow. Crisper. More alive with possibility. Or maybe that was just me, walking down a narrow street with Jack’s hand firmly clasped in mine, still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I was actually in Paris. With Jack. In Paris.
Jack’s voice cut into my thoughts. “You’re quiet. Still processing?”
I laughed, the sound coming out a little breathless. “That’s one way to put it. I mean, that hotel, Jack. That view.” I shook my head, searching for words adequate enough to express the riot of emotions swirling inside me. “I’ve dreamed about coming to Paris since I was a little girl. I have this travel brochure I keep in my desk drawer. I take it out whenever I’m feeling a bit shit, and imagine being here.”
“And now you are.” His voice was soft, his eyes warm as they held mine. “Is it living up to expectations so far?”
“It’s better.” The words came out without hesitation. “Being here with you makes it a thousand times better.”
Something flashed across his face, an emotion too complex to name, before he leaned down and pressed a kiss to my forehead.
For a fleeting moment, I wondered if I’d said too much, revealed too much of the growing feelings I could barely admit to myself. But then his lips curved into that half-smile that never failed to make my heart skip.
“Come on.” He tugged me forward. “The boulangerie is just around the corner. You won’t believe these croissants.”
The tiny shop was tucked between a bookstore and a flower shop, its storefront unassuming except for the heavenly scent wafting through the open door. Inside, the space was warm and cozy, with just enough room for a small marble counter and glass display cases filled with pastries that looked too perfect to be real.
An older woman with silver-streaked hair smiled as we entered, greeting Jack by name as if they were old friends. I raised an eyebrow at him.
“You come here often enough to be on a first-name basis?”
“Every time I’m in Paris,” he admitted, looking almost sheepish. “Madame Rousseau makes the best pain au chocolat in the city.”
