Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(42)

Because, believe me, it’s there.

More than it should be.

Despite Olivier’s absence, I’m craving him more than anything else. My body aches for his touch; my heart beats for his words. When we were in the South of France, I was swept away by how romantic he was, addicted to the sex, to the way he set my skin and soul on fire.

Now we’ve become something else. The next level, even though something inside me was warning me to never let it get to that. Now I’ve become addicted to him in general. The way he makes me feel, the way he makes my heart trip over itself every time he steps into his apartment.

The way my heart sinks every time he leaves.

I have it bad.

There’s no other way to put it.

For all my cynicism and heartache and impulse to roll my eyes at everything romantic and lovey-dovey, something has changed inside me. A switch has been flipped. Maybe it’s all just a trick; maybe it’s because, for what it’s worth, I am still living another life, a life with an expiration date.

But the way I feel about him, the way that he makes me feel . . .

It’s like every cheesy song I’ve heard on the radio has suddenly become true, and the space in my chest that I never thought would belong to anyone again—he’s filled every hollow crevice of it. When I walk through the streets of Paris, I’m practically floating, even when I’m doing nothing but missing him.

The waiter comes back and gives me the espresso and the sparkling water. I don’t know if it’s because I’m attempting to speak French or if I’m just more open, but the Parisians are so much nicer this time around. Maybe I’m just seeing them in a different light.

I have to say, I like the fact that Olivier is so old school. He’s talked a lot about the company and the way the Dumont family has done things, and I admire how he sticks to his guns. It speaks to the way that he values his family and tradition. It takes guts to stand for something when everyone else in the world wants you to change.

Granted, I mean, he’s a slick, rich thirty-year-old with the world at his feet. But there’s something inherently sexy to me about someone who is strong in their convictions.

I just wish . . . well.

Even when he isn’t at his father’s office or doing his own hotelier thing, I wish that we could go out into the streets of Paris together. Have dinner at a nice restaurant. Or, hell, a dodgy dive bar. See the sights. Walk hand in hand or at least near each other. But he’s so insistent that we aren’t to be seen together.

I know he’s said that it’s because he doesn’t want the media to make a big deal out of it, but I’m not sure that’s the case. I’ve been doing a lot of online stalking of Olivier Dumont since the moment I met him, and while the press have definitely photographed him, it’s usually in a very public setting, like a fashion show or the opening of a hotel or restaurant. And, yes, the babes on his arms are always changing, but there doesn’t seem to be any fuss made over him. It just is who he is.

Is he afraid that if he’s seen with me more than once, it will look like we’re an item? Maybe that’s what he’s afraid of: the fact that we aren’t an item, that I’m supposed to fly back home in eight days.

Or maybe it is worse.

Is it that he’s ashamed of me?

That he doesn’t want to be seen with me at all? That he’s slumming it with some American student? After all, compared to the beauties he’s always with—some of them even famous actresses—I’m . . . nobody. I can’t hold a candle to them.

I swallow hard, feeling doubt mingling with the sadness. This is why I hate being alone these days; it gives me too much time to think and obsess. I take a sip of my espresso, and I can practically feel my hair standing on end. I was hoping the caffeine would lift my spirits, but in the end I think it’s just going to give me a panic attack.

When I’m done and pay the bill—my bank account is crying every second, even though Olivier insists on subsidizing me—I head back out onto the streets.

It’s busy and chaotic and just before noon. I had a late start today, and now the sun is out in full force, beating down on all the tourists who cram the narrow streets of the Marais.

“Well, you’re in Paris,” I tell myself out loud, trying to be cheerful. “Go somewhere, do something.”

I haven’t even scratched the surface when it comes to the museums and sights, and I have to resist the urge to be swallowed up by the waves of people and have them lead me back to the apartment. As glorious as his place is, once I’m there I know all I’ll do is mope and wait for him.

I decide to go check out the Picasso museum. All the art that Olivier collects has renewed my interest in it, and I know he gets a kick out of the fact that I can converse with him about some things. Maybe after the museum I can teach him a thing or two about moody Picasso.

I’m waiting at the light to cross the street when I feel an odd chill run over my shoulders, which is doubly odd since it’s boiling outside.

I slowly turn around, expecting to see something, though I don’t know what, but only see smiling tourists instead.

Then a man passes, quickly ducking into a mobile phone store. I only see him in profile and only for a second, but there’s something familiar about him. I have a feeling he’s handsome, even though I didn’t see enough of him to draw that conclusion.