Revealing Us (Inside Out #3)(19)

“We just . . . You never . . .”

“We will. When the time is right, we will.”

For one slice of an instant I see the trepidation in his eyes, and I understand. He’s just made sure both Amber and I know how serious he is about me, but he doesn’t really believe I’ll ever marry him.

I press up to my toes, my hands lattening on his shoulders, 71



and I whisper in his ear, “Nothing can change how much I love you.” I lean back to let him see the truth in my eyes, and pure anguish lashes in his. He is touched by my claim but he doesn’t believe it to be true. It’s amazing how far we have traveled together, how the tables have turned. Not so long ago, I questioned if he could ever truly need me—and now, it’s he who questions me in the same way.

I start to whisper his name, but his ingers slide under my hair and he brings my mouth to his, one sultry slide of his tongue licking into my mouth. The sound of Amber clinking things around loudly breaks through the passion spiraling between us and Chris pulls back, his ingers tracing a strand of my hair, the air between us thick with unspoken words. “We’ll talk later,” he promises. “Ready for that cofee?”

“Yes,” I choke out, uncomfortably aware of Amber all over again. “Cofee is good.”

He drapes an arm over my shoulder. “Then let me start by showing you our impressive collection of plain white mugs.”

We turn toward the cabinet, but not before I catch a glimpse of Amber staring at us. No . . . at me. And the look is pure hatred, the kind of look Ava gave me weeks back when she’d seen me in the deli with Mark. I’d been stunned by the hostility in her face, since she’d always been friendly to me before. The comparison between that moment and this one shakes me to the core, and my nails dig into Chris’s back where my hand has settled.

He glances down at me and his too-sexy mouth twitches, all signs of his darker side gone. “Save that for when we’re alone, baby.”

I glower at him, thinking there is a lot we should save for when we’re alone. Amber hates me for sure now, and despite what Chris said, I’m pretty sure she’s in love with him. “You were showing me the collection of white mugs?” I prod, my ingers pressing against the spot where I’d dug my ingernails, warning him to behave.

“I was,” he agrees. “And who would want to miss that?”

Amber says something in French and Chris turns to her.

“English, Amber. Sara doesn’t speak French.”

“Oh,” she comments. “That’s going to be fun for her.”

Her. Like I’m not even here. I sigh inwardly, knowing I have to put a stop to this. Though I’m not confrontational, I left my doormat status back at my father’s house.

I accept the cofee Chris pours me and set my cup on the island across from her, forcing her to deal with me. “I’ll learn.”

And this time I mean it. I will not be crushed by a language barrier. “You’re American, right? Surely at some point you had to.”

Chris joins me on the opposite side of the island across from Amber and sets cream on the counter. “Yes, she was once as American as apple pie.”

Amber’s brows dip. “I’m still American, but unlike you, I’ve embraced French culture.”

He loves Paris but he doesn’t embrace French culture? I want to explore this, but Amber is already moving on. “Learning French sucked. I hated every second of it, but you really have to learn, to spend any substantial time here. Believe me, I found that out quickly.”

Chris glances down at me. “She came here as a teenager, like I did, and American students aren’t welcomed with open arms.”

“Kids are cruel,” she agrees, surprising me by showing a vulnerable side.

I’m not sure I want to see her as human, which isn’t nice.

There’s no healthy reason to feel this jealousy . . . aside from the fact that she’s gorgeous and has a long history with the man I love. Oh, how I hate this insecure side of me.

“. . . but that was ages ago,” Amber says, inishing a sentence I didn’t hear, standing at the cofeepot, all long, lean, and beautiful, illing her cup. “You need a one-on-one tutor if you want to learn quickly.”

“She’s right,” Chris agrees. “We’ll get you someone lined up, if you want?”

“I’d like that,” I say, and I don’t miss how he’s asked me rather than ordered me, when only a short time before he was dominant and I was submissive. It’s the balance of respect and dominance in Chris that makes him so very dif-ferent from other dominant men, of whom there have been many in my life. “We need to ind a really patient person who knows how to teach someone who doesn’t learn other languages well.”

“That would be Tristan,” Amber suggests. “He teaches English. I’m sure he can teach French.”

“No,” Chris says and his eyes meet Amber’s. “Tristan is not tutoring Sara.”

“He’s much better than some stufy teacher who will cram rules and subject matter down her throat. He’ll get her street-slanging it in a week.”

“No,” Chris repeats, and there is a low, dangerous quality to his voice.

Ouch. Who is this Tristan and why does Chris want me to stay away from him?