Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4)(66)

“To justice. At long last,” he said.

“Hear. Hear.” It was a chorus sounded by everyone.

His grandmother nodded as a tear slipped from an eye. They clinked glasses, Michael with Brent, Ryan, Sophie, Elle, his grandparents, even Mindy. He tapped his glass to the flute of Diet Coke Colin held, and to the water glass in his pregnant sister’s hand. He suspected John would be in attendance at the next event, by Mindy’s side, but for now he was still busy, still working, and Michael was glad of that. He hoped that Marcus would come back soon enough to join them. Maybe for Christmas.

“At last,” Victoria echoed, and they all drank.

There was something incredibly odd about celebrating an arrest. And yet, it wasn’t the least bit bizarre.

Since his world had been wrenched upside-down and shattered eighteen years ago, he’d grown accustomed to the unexpected moments. In a family that had seen a father killed by a mother, that same mother in prison, and a half-brother born behind bars, life became unexpected.

Celebrations could take on the strangest forms, moving well beyond the usual festive occasions of birthdays, anniversaries, and weddings.

Michael knocked back a hearty gulp of champagne and wrapped an arm around his grandmother. She looked up at him and flashed a smile rich with relief.

That was what this feeling was.

The long, overdue exhalation.

It was blissful relief, hard-earned justice, and delicious victory. Nothing would ever change the course their lives had taken that fateful night, but at last, at long f*cking last, there was the promise of peace once again. It tasted so good.

Shannon beamed, and Brent rubbed his hand on her belly. Sophie began slicing the cherry pie she’d made for the occasion, as Ryan once again thanked her for the key part she’d played in helping decode the names of the accomplices. Colin wrapped his arms around Elle and kissed her cheek, then whispered something in her ear. She shot him the sweetest smile, and for a moment Michael found himself wondering if Colin would be down on one knee, too, popping the question to the woman he loved.

Love.

There was so much of it here in this house. It was a surplus. They had an embarrassment of riches when it came to love. His brothers and sister. Their husbands, girlfriends, and fiancées. His grandparents. Even the dog had joined in, rubbing his side against Michael’s grandmother’s leg.

After he’d taken a bite of pie, his phone buzzed. Grabbing it from his back pocket, he felt his heart warm as he found a new photo from his girl.

A shot of her legs. She looked to be sitting at a sidewalk café, and he pictured her perfectly—watching the world go by, observing it all, drinking it in, and thinking of him.

The caption read: Waiting for you. Not much longer.

He’d be seeing her in mere days. The past was behind him. The present was free of its weight. The future was in his grasp, on the other side of an ocean, waiting for him. He could have it, taste it, touch it, love it.

Love her, if she’d let him. He hoped, and he hoped, and he hoped that she was ready.

She was the love of his life, and he’d been given a second chance with her.

Perhaps that was part of this newfound peace.





CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE


A blue and white teapot called out to her. Ceramic, with a line of blue ivy snaking along the top, it was pretty and artsy at the same time. Her hand darted out, carefully avoiding the mass of kitchen items crowding it on a table at a sidewalk vendor. Grabbing the teapot, she held it in front of her, brandishing it for Michael’s opinion.

“I need this, don’t I?”

They were at the marché aux puces at Porte de Vanves, a massive weekend flea market, spread across many blocks.

He gave her an inquisitive stare. “Didn’t you buy a teapot yesterday at a fancy shop in the Marais?”

Busted.

“I know,” she said with a pout. They’d wandered all over Paris the last few days, seeing museums, stopping at bakeries, popping into shops, strolling along the Seine, and flipping through vintage postcards at the street-side dealers. She stroked the porcelain. “But it is so pretty.”

He shook his head, laughing, and squeezed her shoulder. “I would never have pegged you as such a hoarder.”

“I just like cute little objects. If you came to my flat, you’d see. I have all sorts of little trinkets,” she said, nudging his side, trying to convince him.

“Someday,” he said softly, looking away.

She chose not to press. He hadn’t been to her home yet. His trip was only to last for four days. He’d booked a hotel room, and she’d spent her nights there and the days traveling across the city with him. She understood why he didn’t want to stay at her house. He had been upfront about it.

“I want to make new memories with you,” he’d said. “I hope you understand I just can’t step foot in the place where you lived with your husband. Not yet.”

Her home was rich with history, with the story of her time with another man. She couldn’t fault Michael for not being ready to open the green door to her two-bedroom apartment and walk inside. She didn’t want him to feel like a second choice, because he never felt that way to her, so they’d stayed away, enjoying a little vacation in a hotel room.

She set down the teapot and took his hand, threading her fingers through his. He glanced down at their joined hands and dropped a kiss to her cheek. She shuddered at the sparks that raced through her, even from a little kiss like that. He was so affectionate, and he loved touching her. Holding her hand. Wrapping an arm around her. Planting kisses on her face. Anywhere and everywhere. She loved walking through Paris with him touching her so possessively, as if he was telling all the world that she belonged to him.