I haven’t decided which is more worrying. The fact thatI kissed him back with equal enthusiasm, or the fact that I’d gladly do it again.
The captain’s voice hums overhead announcing our descent into France. My stomach dips, not from turbulence, but from the sudden, unwelcome wave of awareness that in less than an hour, I’m going to see Asher again.
I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with my face when that happens.
Any thoughts about Asher and how to stop my heart from bursting through my chest the second I lay eyes on him disappear as the plane dips through a sea of pale clouds as sunlight suddenly spills across the cabin in molten gold.
I press a hand to the window as the French Alps come into view, snowy peaks giving way to pine forests and the glittering blue-green of Lake Annecy. It’s not my first time visiting this part of France, but the beauty of it all still takes my breath away.
There’s a bakery in the small town a short drive from the lake, and I wonder if I’ll have time to visit it. It’s tucked away on a quiet corner, the kind of place you’d miss if you blinked while driving past. The shutters are a faded green, paint peeling in soft curls like dried petals, and the sign above the door –LA MIETTE– is so weathered it looks like it’s simply clinging to the wall out of sheer force of will.
It’s not the kind of place that ends up in glossy travel magazines or gets made famous by influencers on TikTok or Instagram, but that’s what I love about it. The first time Iwandered in, it smelled like butter and sugar and something faintly citrusy. The air inside was warm enough to melt every bit of stress out of my body. The counters were dusted with flour, and the glass case overflowed with pastries that looked too beautiful to eat. There were rows and rows of golden croissants stacked on top of each other, glossy fruit tarts with apricots shining like jewels, and a mountain of butterypain au chocolatsfilled with creamy, molten chocolate.
I wonder if it’s still there. I can picture it now; the low hum of French chatter, the bell that jingles when the door opens, the smell of sugar melting into air, and before I can stop myself, I imagine walking in with Asher.
It’s a ridiculous thought. Absolutely unhelpful. Yet it lodges in my mind and refuses to disappear. I imagine him sitting across from me at the corner table, sunlight catching on his hair, grinning my favourite smile over the rim of his coffee cup while butter flakes from his croissant gather on his sleeve.
For one dizzy, traitorous heartbeat, I want that.
I want to see the look on his face when he takes his first bite and he realises that this tiny bakery, nestled off the beaten track in the middle of the French Alps, will ruin every single other bakery for him.
I want to share it with him; this quiet, ordinary thing that feels like home.
The realisation hits me so suddenly, it’s like I’ve been slapped.
I want to sharesomething realwith him.
Which is insane. Because this whole thing between us, whatever it is, just isn’t real. It’s all built on lies and strategy and optics.
Still, as the plane dips lower, the clouds thinning into a wash of blue and gold, I can’t shake the image I’ve conjured of Asher laughing in that little bakery, sugar on his thumb, sunlight in his hair.
When we land, the ground staff at the airport staff usher us through a private terminal and before long, we’re sliding into the back of a glossy black car with tinted windows and emblazoned with the signature Vouvalis V.
The drive winds us through pine forests and sleepy lakeside villages. It’s picturesque. Stunning, really. I wish we had more time here, but we’ve only got forty-eight hours. As we crest the final hill and the hotel grounds come into view, I can’t help but gasp. Vouvalis Resort locations are always beautiful, but this is on another level.
The building rises from the lakeside like something out of a dream. Sleek lines of white stone and glass terraces that curve along the water’s edge, sunlight catching on every mirrored surface. I spy an infinity pool in the near distance that seems to spill straight into the lake. Cameras flash near the entrance where a cluster of photographers has already gathered to snap the oncoming onslaught of guests for the weekend.
The entranceway is crowded with cars identical to ours, guests snapping photos on their phones and posing for thehired photographers, and cheerful-looking staff dragging around large, expensive suitcases and taking them up to rooms. I shouldn’t be able to find him in a crowd this chaotic, but I do.
He’s standing on the steps, a little way away from the crowd. He looks effortlessly handsome, as per usual.
Navy suit, open collar, the faintest hint of stubble along his jawline. His posture is relaxed, but I can tell by the faint tension in his jaw that he’s not nearly as calm as he looks.
The sight of him hits me harder than I expect. My pulse spikes, my brain short-circuits, and for a second, I think I genuinely forget how to breathe.
And then his eyes find mine through the car window.
A tiny, knowing smile flickers at the corner of his mouth. It’s the kind of smile that simultaneously seems to saythank God you’re hereandI remember exactly what you taste like.
I swallow thickly.
Sloane follows my gaze and lets out a low whistle. ‘Like I said,doomed.’
CHAPTER NINETEENImani
‘Imani.’
I swear, the way Asher says my name should be illegal. The way he looks, too.
