Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4)(69)

When they reached the cashier, Annalise ordered a baguette and a coffee éclair. The woman stuffed a loaf into a white paper bag, then wrapped an éclair in paper and twisted the ends.

“Pour vous?” she asked him.

In painful, deliberately prolonged, Americanized French, he said, “Je voudrais un abricot tarte.”

Annalise rolled her eyes at his bastardized pronunciation, especially how he made tarte sound precisely like the French word for yogurt. On purpose. The woman behind the counter bent down, reached into the register case, and grabbed a small jar of yogurt. She thrust it at him.

“Wait, wait. I would also like an apricot tarte,” he said, in his best French. He was rewarded with a grin and the treat.

Outside, they parked themselves at a small wooden table.

“Now the test. You hate coffee, but do you like coffee éclairs?”

“Let’s find out.”

As a cool breeze blew by, and a hint of gray swelled the sky, she slid the éclair to him. He bit into it, savoring the sweetness. He hummed around the flaky pastry, and wiggled his eyebrows.

“So that’s a yes?”

He nodded. “Big yes. You keeping a list of my favorite things?”

“Perhaps I am,” she said, and his heart thumped harder, simply because she’d truly wanted to know. She’d followed through. She was curious about his everyday wishes and wants.

They traded bites of the tarte, shared the yogurt, and pulled off chunks of bread as Parisians strolled by on a Sunday morning. Soon the sky darkened, and raindrops splashed across the cobbled sidewalk.

They tossed the remnants of their late breakfast into a trash can, and he offered her a hand. “You know what’s good to do in the rain?”

“I do,” she said, cupping his cheeks and kissing him as the world around them turned gray and wet and cool.

He moved his lips to her ear. “You smell like falling rain.”

“Do you like it?”

“I love it,” he said, lacing his fingers through her hair and inhaling her, so glad he didn’t have to rely on a letter to get his fix.

She pulled back to look at him as if she was searching his face, studying his eyes, uncovering new truths about him, and maybe herself, too. “I think this is more than falling.”

His heart beat faster, soaring to the sky, and he could hardly believe that life could be so good, so sweet. It was even better when they returned to his room and spent the next few hours in bed, taking their time, discovering even more, falling even deeper.

*

A small fire blazed in a fireplace, warming the centuries-old building that housed the tiny restaurant not far from the Eiffel Tower. Framed artwork of eggs, asparagus, and tomatoes lined one white wall. Another wall was red brick. White cloths draped the tables.

It was Michael’s last night here, and already she missed him. The empty ache had started before he even left. She wanted him here. Wanted him to stay. She’d loved every moment with him.

Right now she simply loved watching him talk to Patrick, Noelle’s husband. With the dinner plates cleared away, and the dessert served, they were discussing French politics and world affairs. Admittedly, it was kind of sexy to hear him so deep in conversation, a glass of red wine in his hand, his blue button-down shirt revealing a small patch of skin at his throat that she wanted to kiss.

Her lips longed to press against his chest. Her fingers itched to undress him. Her heart ached to have him close.

Especially since he fit so well with her family.

She understood even better why he’d learned French—to be able to talk like this, to be a part of her life. It was such a heady thing, such a romantic endeavor. She’d marveled at what he’d done, and now she witnessed it. This meal with her sister, her mother, and Patrick was one of the first times she’d heard him speak her language for this long. He was flawless, and kind of crazy sexy with his American accent. He didn’t have the sloppy pronunciation of those who’d grown up knowing French. Every word was articulated.

He’d talked to her mother, too, during the meal, catching up first on some of her favorite French news from the radio she loved, and then she’d plied him with questions about Las Vegas. Was the Strip larger than life? Yes. Were the hotels as big as they seemed? Absolutely. Was the city full of sin? He’d answered yes to that one, too, a sad smile on his face.

She was amazed how much he loved his home, in spite of all the pain he’d gone through there. But that was behind him now that the last man had been taken in. They hadn’t spent much time diving into details of the final arrest. Michael seemed to want to move on, and she couldn’t fault him for not lingering on the specifics. Perhaps that was part of why he appeared so carefree again, so much the man she’d known when she was younger, yet so much this new man, too. Strong, protective, and yet vulnerable. She’d never known someone to put his heart on the line the way Michael had for her.

“He’s a good man.”

Annalise turned to meet her mother’s light green eyes. Her voice was soft, a whisper just for her.

She nodded. “He is.”

Her mother’s hand, wrinkled from years, pressed to her forearm. “I’m glad you’re letting yourself be happy.”

“Me, too.”

Knowing eyes stared back at her. “Have you told him how you feel?”