Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 43856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
“Amazing.” Fabien leaned back in his chair, watching me with that same slow-burning intensity that had been unraveling me since we met. His gaze, heavy with interest, traced the line of my lips before lifting to meet my eyes.
I picked up my glass, tilting it slightly to let the deep ruby liquid swirl and watching as it clung to the sides. "Do you live in New York?"
"God no." He shook his head, looking genuinely horrified. "If I did, I would need to be on suicide watch."
I let out a surprised laugh. "I swear, if you keep dissing America like this, I’m putting in a complaint with the French embassy."
"Ah, but then you would have to deal with French bureaucracy, and that is an entirely different kind of torture."
"Fair point.” I smirked. “So where do you live?"
"Paris," Fabien picked up his glass, lifted it to his nose, and deeply inhaled. Then, he took a quick sip and nodded in enjoyment. "My condo is in the 7th arrondissement, home to the Eiffel Tower. In fact, my terrace has a perfect view. And. . .my neighbors are famous artists, top diplomats, and old-money aristocrats."
I snapped my fingers. "Talk that shit."
He laughed, deep and rich. "Well. . .that is my humble way of trying to entice you to visit me."
"There was nothing humble about that."
"As I said before, the French can be out of practice with being humble." His smirk was devastating.
My heart was drumming in my chest, this pull between us growing tighter.
I took a slow sip of my wine, and it coated my tongue like silk, impossibly smooth, rich with an almost sinful depth. Heat curled low in my belly as the flavors expanded
Fabien sipped his wine too. His throat moved as he swallowed, and I had no business finding that as erotic as I did.
Once he set the glass down, he quirked his brows. "So no boyfriend or lover for me to compete with?"
"No. I'm completely single. What about you? Are you dating?"
Fabien exhaled. "Until now. . .I had not been able to find someone to even spark my interest."
I scoffed. "I find that hard to believe."
"Why?"
"You're in the city of love. Surely, there are elegant women all over the place."
He leaned forward, just slightly, just enough that his presence seemed to wrap around me. "Elegant women are plentiful in any city across the world. In fact, I've yet to ever see a woman that isn't stunning in some way. Every woman on this Earth is beautiful.”
He raised one finger. “But a woman that makes me freeze. One who just. . .causes my heart to pulse fast. Makes my head spin and my mind want to know more and more about. . .well. . .”
He exhaled again. "That happened tonight, and it’s been a good ten years since that has occurred."
Those words hit deep within me. "And. . .ten years ago?"
His expression shifted, the teasing light in his eyes dimmed slightly. "That was when I met my ex-wife. Obviously, we're now divorced. The marriage lasted for four years.”
He paused, glancing up at me, searching my face for something—maybe judgment, maybe curiosity.
I stayed silent, giving him space.
His jaw flexed before he let out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. “I was wrong back then,” he admitted, tapping his fingers lightly against the base of his glass. “I thought love was supposed to be about perfection, yet effortless too. Like it wouldn’t take so much work.”
He shook his head. “But love isn’t effortless. People aren’t effortless. And I. . .I didn’t know how to be patient. How to listen. How to meet someone where they were instead of where I wanted them to be.”
His voice dipped, and when his eyes lifted to mine again, they were softer than before, open in a way that made my chest tighten.
“But she was wrong too,” he said, almost hesitant, like it pained him to admit it. “She also demanded a version of me that didn’t exist. A man who never second-guessed, never faltered, never needed time to figure himself out. And I let her believe that was who I was, thinking maybe I could become that man if I tried hard enough. But in the end, we were just. . .two people loving ghosts of each other instead of who we really were.”
He picked his glass up, took a long sip, and then set it back down with a quiet thud. “That’s why I don’t rush things now because love—real love—deserves honesty and time. And I won’t make the mistake of giving someone a mirage of me ever again. They must know me and all my imperfections.”
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until I finally let it out, something deep and aching twisting in my stomach.
Because damn.
That was a confession.
A real one.
No bravado.
No arrogance.
Just a man admitting that he had been wrong, that he had learned, and that he refused to repeat those mistakes again.