I no longer have to wonder if such a thing could be possible or whether or not I’m fucking capable of it.
I’mbesotted. Head over goddamn heels. Absolutely goddamn whipped.
I fucking love her.
The girl has me on my knees.
And now it’s locked in: she’s coming to New York. I couldn’t have orchestrated Sadie’s insistence better myself.I’mnot officially the one dragging Amelie out of New Orleans. All I’m doing is innocently and helpfully offering to facilitate her best friend’s plan.
Amelie obviously has hesitations and it’s understandable. She’s hardly been out of the French Quarter in her life.
But I’m going to make New York so fucking magical she won’t have to second guess a single goddamn thing. I’m going to spend every one of my ten billion dollars if that’s what it takes to sweep her off her feet and marry me.
So you’re fucking marrying her now? Slow down, you maniac.
I can’t. I’ve found my true purpose in life and it’s to never let this girl out of my sight and to make her so happy she’ll never want to leave me.
Obviously, hell will have to freeze over before Amelie willbe sleeping on the sister’s couch in a one-bedroom apartment in Queens. She’s moving in with me, whether she knows it yet or not.
I haven’t told her that I sent a few texts when her attention was diverted at the restaurant. I’ve already hired more staff, deployed a helicopter, made some bookings and I am by all objective measures coming in very hot. But I can be stealthy about it. Because if she suspects my mania or even a hint of what it is I actually want, which is everything, permanently, for the rest of time, starting immediately, she could easily get spooked. I need to tempt her, slowly, so each step forward she takes is because she wants to. She needs to be in control of her own decisions.
Within reason.
I’ll play it cool, even if my blood is on fire with hot lust and the kind of love that you could never be prepared for. It’s why I’m not ravaging her right here in the elevator. Which is all I really want to do.
“Can I ask you something?” It’s good. I sound normal.
She gives me a light shrug. “Go ahead.”
“What’s in New York? For you. Apart from Sadie. What were your plans?”
She thinks about it honestly, which is a thing she does. She doesn't reach for the comfortable answer, she finds the real one. “I don’t have any plans. There’s not a single thing for me in New York. When I’m feeling optimistic, I’m hopeful I could turn nothing into something. But I have no idea how I’d do that in a strange place when I can’t even do it in a familiar one. And notknowing if it would work out felt like enough of a reason to stay.”
“If you could make it work, what would that look like for you?”
She sighs, like she wishes things were different and what she’s about to reveal isn’t without pain. “Half of my identify is, or was, tied up in my family’s legacy of being a hotel owner—bankrupt or not. The other half is an artist. I paint. Or at least I used to. Before things happened that got in the way.”
I’m a little surprised by this, I’m not sure why. She continues to awe me. I fucking love this. It’s so perfectly her. “That’s what you should be doing, then. Painting.”
She lets out a lightly cynical huff. “Yeah. I know. Sadie and I both went to a very selective high school of the creative arts. That’s how we met. Back then, I used to do a painting a week. But I haven’t painted a single thing since … well, in a while.”
For obvious reasons. She’s been too busy working her fingers to the bone and dealing with the substantial fallout of her father’s mistakes. “I happen to know a few gallery owners in the city.”
“Too bad I don’t have anything to offer them or anyone else. All my paintings got sold along with all the rest of the family heirlooms.” There’s the tiniest hitch in her voice at the mention of this. A chink in her armor. I can detect that the loss of her art was one of the harder things to bear—in a sea of hardships that someone as beautiful and brave as this girl should not have to be dealing with.
And as the elevator doors slide open and I carry her into the room, that protective surge inside me takes over.
I lay her gently onto the bed and hold my weight above her, crouching over her. She’s so small compared to me, so vulnerable, all I want to do is protect her from myself. But it’s too late for that. So all I can offer her is everything I have.
“I can fix everything. I’m going to give you the world. And I’m going to prove to you that you can trust me.”
She does that thing where she bites her lip and I can actually see her forcefield deflect what she thinks are empty promises—because empty promises are the only kind she knows. “You don’t need to do this, Dallas.”
“Do what?”
“I want to be here with you. You don’t need to say stuff like that.”
The universe has a twisted sense of humor. How many women would have walked through fire to hear the words I’m saying to Amelie Thibodeaux. Yet she doesn’t believe a word of it. My reply comes out sounding surly. “I’ll say them if I want to say them. Because I mean them. I’ll take care of you.”
