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“You know you're worth more than that, right?”
“Damn straight, I wouldn't have sex in there!” I wrinkle my nose. “Just… eww.”
“No, I mean the other thing Nate said.”
I pull my hand away. “When did you last have sex with somebody, Jax?”
Without taking his eyes off mine, he replies, “Not since the tour started. That's why he's calling me a boring bastard.”
“Really?”
“Why doubtful? I was going to the night in Portugal, I admit that. But you saw what happened. Then... You. I wanted you.” He says the words in a low voice, stepping forward to wind an arm around my waist again.
“And? You want lots of girls. Why stop because of me?”
“I knew you were off-limits and at first I thought that's why I wanted you.”
I push his hand from my waist. “Is that why you’re doing this?”
“Hell, no. I started to obsess about you everyday and couldn’t wait to see you. Then you snuck into my dreams at night too. I wanted you and knew I'd have no chance if I umm... indulged with other girls.”
I smile at his clumsy attempt to tell me how he feels. If he'd said this a day ago I wouldn't have believed him, but there’s sincerity in his eyes. “You don't have to sweet talk me, Jax. You made that clear tonight, risking life and limb telling Bryn.”
He tips my chin. “I'm a lucky bastard because I got the girl. I intend to keep hold of her. Will and Nate can stick to their groupies, I'm only interested in you.”
“And now the world knows.”
“And now the world knows,” he repeats softly and kisses me. “Let’s go.”
We head down the red-carpeted stairs, into the bright lights and hubbub of the main diner. Eighties rock competes with chatter, and diners sit at chrome tables beneath the rock memorabilia held in cases on the wall. When I arrived a couple of hours ago, the place was half-full, and now every table is occupied. A waiter passes us, singing along to the music and the smell of fried food reaches me from the plate he carries.
A group of girls in a booth at the opposite side of the restaurant looks up from their colourful cocktails, zoning in on us. On Jax. I can't hear over the noise; but if I could, I'd hear the teenage girl squeal at her friend. I freeze as I scan the rest of the room. The number of people looking at us, some with more interest than others, unnerves me.
I take Jax's hand and he pulls it away. My stomach sinks and I'm about to walk off when he wraps an arm around my shoulder instead. “Come on.”
I’m thankful the restaurant is full and hope nobody is about to pounce on us in a crowded, public place. I allow Jax to manoeuvre me to the large entrance, grateful for his protective embrace. Before we reach the doors, the young girl from the table appears and steps in front of us. She thrusts a menu at Jax, hand shaking as she holds a pen too.
“Can you sign this?” she asks breathlessly.
“Shit,” he mutters.
I meet her brown eyes and she scrutinises me. Her brows tug together, and I’m uncomfortable by her judgment of me. “Just do it and let's go,” I hiss.
The girl watches him with open adoration. Jax has dropped his arm from me to take the menu and leaving me vulnerable. I dart a look around; and as soon as Jax takes the menu, several other people take this as the signal he's here for an autograph session and head over.
“Jax, we should go. Move.”
A different girl’s phone camera flashes in our face and I blink, dazzled. Jax’s fingers grip mine and he pulls us away. People call his name and he picks up the pace, pushing past people and through the glass doors.
The Parisian evening is cool and my rapid breath mists in front of me. A not so-welcoming group of photographers hangs in the street outside the cafe, the flash from their camera bigger and brighter than the girls’ cameras inside.
“Fuck, where's the car?” asks Jax.
The volume of people calling Jax's name rises and I'm jostled as people descend on us. “Jax! Move!”
He's continues to walk forward, head bowed and my pulse rate hikes as people start shouting my name, asking who I am.
A burly man emerges through the crowd, with relief I recognise him from the airport as a part-driver, part-security detail.
