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LONDYN’S LUSH LIPS curl in a know-it-all smirk as she nods her head and declares with authority, “Uh, it’s what I know.”
I shake my head at that. Since I first brought her home, she’s been making some pretty big assumptions, telling me what I think, adamant that she knows the reasons behind my actions, when really, she has no idea. How could she, when I don’t. Christ, I’m supposed to be the one in charge, the one who knows what they’re doing, and I’m walking around with my head in the clouds not knowing which way is up or down.
The thing is though, I want to hate her. I really do. She gutted me back in college and started dating some asshole from the right side of the tracks, someone Daddy approved of. Why she cares what her old man thinks is beyond me. He never gave her the praise and encouragement she needed, or deserved. I guess that’s how it is with parents though, and I wish I knew that firsthand. No matter what, a kid will fight for their respect and approval, whether the parent warrants it or not.
Maybe someday her father will wake up. Hell, maybe someday Londyn will. I truthfully wish he could see what I saw today. The concentration, the small smile on her face as she donated her time to help some college students. There aren’t too many people I know who’d bother. That was beauty in its purest form. So yeah, while I want to hate her, I can’t. In fact, the second I saw her sitting there, happily working with some antiquated sewing machine—totally in her element, even in a cramped room that could pass as a closet—something warm and needy flared inside me, something I refuse to put a name to.
You can’t go there.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, redirecting the conversation. No way am I about to let myself get wrapped up in her again. I won’t. The rational side of me understands that, the rest of me...well, the rest of me doesn’t give two shits if I fall flat on my face a second time.
Her stomach takes that moment to grumble, loudly.
Chuckling, I nudge her with my shoulder. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Her eyes go saucer wide as she puts her hands over her belly to hide the sound. “That wasn’t embarrassing at all.”
“No need to be embarrassed. Not with me.” I take the bag of clothes from her. “Do you want to drop these things off and go out and grab a bite to eat?”
“Sounds like a good idea. I haven’t eaten since the croissant earlier. Oh, speaking of...” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a white paper bag. She opens it and frowns. “They’re kind of squished.”
“No worries. We can get more. Did you like it?” I ask, hoping for a yes. Christ, I’m not sure why pleasing her, and wanting her to like what I like, has become so damn important to me.
Oh, Cason, don’t screw yourself over here.
“It was delicious,” she says and makes a little moaning sound that teases my cock. A gust of wind rushes down the street, blowing a paper cup. I stop to pick it up, drop it into a garbage can, and when I find her shivering, I lift the collar to cover her ears. Jesus, she’s adorable, and I take a moment to envision her in one of my button-down shirts, and nothing else. I bite back a groan as I imagine her long legs sleek and bare...wrapped around my shoulders. My dick grows, but the streets of Cannes, filled with tourists, is no place to be sporting a boner.
“Such a gentleman,” she says and gives me a smile as I secure a button that came undone. The appreciation in her eyes warms me more than a layer of wool ever could, and reminds me I was far from a gentleman as I ravished her this morning. Dammit, I’m not a teen, I shouldn’t have acted like a hormonal pubescent, an amateur with zero finesse eager to get into his girl’s pants. But this woman...and what she does to me is absurd.
“Ogre, pervert and now a gentleman,” I gruff to hide the way my heart is skipping around my chest like a child hyped up on sugar. “You’re going to have to make up your mind, Londyn. All these mixed messages are confusing me.”
She laughs, and the easy, carefree sound, one I haven’t heard since our college days, surrounds me, batters the wall around my fractured heart. Even though she apologized, and it came straight from a good and honest place, I tighten my guard, reconstruct those cracked walls before I bleed out again. I can’t go there with her.
“Give me time, I’ll come up with the perfect description before the two weeks are over,” she says.
I scoff. “Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about.” I step closer, wanting the contact with her for reasons I don’t want to identify.
She kicks at a pebble, her smile falling as her eyes lift to mine. “What were you going to say earlier, when I thought you were going to send me home?”
“I was going to say, I will send out for some supplies, fabrics, whatever you wish. You can create, design, do whatever you like while you’re here. I have lots of spare rooms. This is supposed to be an epic week for you, too, right, with lots of pampering. Since I’m not whisking you off to Paris, or wherever else you’d like to go—”
“There’s nowhere else, Cason,” she says, her words rushing out on a fast breath. “Right here is where I want to be. With you.”
“Okay,” I say. Tortured eyes lock on mine, and my gut clenches. What is she really doing here in Cannes, selling herself at an auction house, and why is she determined to stay here with me, a man she screwed over years ago? There was no denying her panic when she thought I was sending her home, and I want to know why that idea rattles her. Does it have something to do with her father? Perhaps what I should really be seeking answers to is, why am I so hell-bent on keeping her? A car speeds by, its revving engine pulling my thoughts back. We dodge a few tourists and continue down the sidewalk. “We’ll create a studio for you,” I say.
She stops walking, and it takes two long steps before I realize she’s no longer beside me. I turn to find her staring at me, her jaw open. “Was it something I said?” I ask and slide my hands into my pockets. I rock on my feet, studying her beautiful face as I meet her unwavering stare and wait for an answer.
“I...” She shakes her head and her honeyed hair falls over her shoulders. “That’s all too much. I’m supposed to be a companion for you.”
“It’s like this.” I reach out, take one of her hands and brush my thumb over her soft skin. Her fingers twist in mine as she visibly quivers under my touch and I wish I didn’t like her reaction so much. “I’ve never bought a woman’s companionship before, and you’ve never put yourself on the bidding block at an auction house before,” I say and wait for a counter argument. When none comes, I continue with, “So how about we write our own rules, and just live in this fantasy world you have going on in that head of yours.”
Her soft laugh curls around me. “You mean fairy tale?”
“Yes, same thing.”
She gives me a big smile and, catching me off guard, goes up on her toes and throws her arms around my shoulders. “This morning was sort of like a fairy tale to me.”
I tug her to me, her body warm, soft and pliable against mine. I breathe her in. Jesus, she smells like cake and candy and everything I want to put in my mouth. “If you play your cards right, tonight...” Before I finish, I lean forward and press my lips to hers, giving her a small sampling of things to come. I’m not normally one for public displays of affection, but I’m not about to let that stop me, not when I am pretty damn sure I’ll go up in a burst of fire and die a painful death if I don’t get my mouth on her. The tourists who are staring from across the street, well they can either fuck right off, or stay and enjoy the show.
