KING: A Daddy's Best Friend Romance

“You'd be with me,” I say, sliding closer to her. She lets me gather her into my arms, creeping up almost onto my lap and nestling against me. Her fingertips brush the skin of my chest absentmindedly and I want to laugh at how good that feels.

“Why would we do that?” she says in a small voice. I put one finger under her chin and tip her head back, waiting for her eyes to flicker up to meet mine. She blinks twice.

“Because I’m falling in love with you, Jordan, and I don't want to be anywhere if you're not there. We could build a life there. Just us. We could start again.”

It takes a moment for the words to register in her expression, and when they do, it's not what I want. Not at all.

She pulls farther away, sliding back to the corner of the couch and drawing her knees up protectively.

“Oh, King, I don't know,” she breathes, shaking her head tightly. “Everything is so… How can you say that? Falling in love? I mean —”

I hold my hands up. “It's all right,” I interrupt her. “It's okay. Calm down.”

“No, I'm the one who’s sorry!” she pleads. I can tell she really is sorry, but now I am wishing I had not said anything. “King, love is just so… I can't. I just can't!”

“Of course you can't,” I nod. My voice is insistent and confident, much more so than I'm really feeling. But she softens under my direction, waiting patiently for what I'll say next. “You don't have to love me, Jordan. Not yet. But you do need a fresh start. How about this... Don't spend Kelsey's money. Let's go back to Paris and find a new place, just for us. New furniture. New clothes. A brand new Jordan. How does that sound?”

She chews on her thumb knuckle thoughtfully. “Oh, I don't know,” she says in a small voice.

“You know.”

Her eyes meet mine and I hold her gaze, letting her search me for clues, letting her seek me out for comfort.

“All right,” she finally answers. “Let's go back to Paris.”

15

Jordan

I wasn't sure that I wanted to go back to Paris with R, but what else was I going to do? My life had never really been mine anyway, and so when it shattered, what was it? Pieces of something that wasn't even real?

He was right. I really had no choice but to start from scratch.

I didn't take me long to start to like it, to be honest. He found a beautiful apartment near the Eiffel Tower with parquet floors. It had a Juliet balcony where I could go out every morning and fling open the doors (French doors, of course) and greet the pigeons and the sound of traffic jams in the beautiful Parisian morning in my lacy nightgown, like a proper French mistress.

Nearly every day, it seemed like there were more pieces of furniture being delivered. I never even had to wish for anything. Everything just sort of appeared. The grand piano. The paintings. The bed so tall I had to step on a small ladder to get into it. Someone even picked out all the sheets and towels and linens and everything else. It was all just sort of done. I didn’t have to do anything.

And every day when R came back it felt strange, but I started to like it. I started to call it “home” in my head. I

waited for him to arrive. Tidying up in preparation, I got in the habit of making myself pretty as I anticipated his return.

Every day when King came home, he want to know what new furniture had arrived. I got to take him on a tour of the new Bavarian clock or enamelled Asian sideboard, or whatever. He'd act like he had never seen it before, though I figured he had probably picked it out. In any case, he always acted so pleased, so proud.

“Do you like it?” he asks me when the carved room divider arrives.

I try not to wrinkle my nose. It looks like one of those things prostitutes fling their clothes over when they change into their knickers in a Western.

“Well, do you like it?” I reply.

“Oh, ho, Little Girl,” he chuckles. He tugs the strap of my dress down and bites a tender line across the top of my shoulder. “I think that means you do not like it.”

“Well, it is your stuff. Is it really important that I like it?”

He pulls back, his features clouding briefly. “It's our stuff,” he corrects me.

“Is it?” I answer automatically, then wonder where that came from. “If it was our stuff, wouldn’t I be picking some of it out?”

“What would you like to pick out?” he counters.