Charming Like Us (Like Us 7)

I did give him that threat. Only because I like doing my job well, and that means having clear focus on my client. But I fucked that one up myself.

“You didn’t distract me, Highland. I did that to myself when I agreed to take a selfie with a random woman.” Shouldn’t have done that. Technically, I did do it because of Jack. I was trying to get over him. But that’s still not his fault.

I dial a number and press my cell to my ear.

“Oscar?” The older man’s French accent is thick. “Haven’t heard from you in months. I thought maybe Charlie fell out of love with the Louvre.”

“Hardly,” I say. “And you know I can speak French, Florent.”

“I know,” Florent replies in English still. “What do you need?”

“Charlie’s MIA. Can you see if he left the museum? Last known location was room 703, the Denon Wing.”

“It’ll take me a couple minutes. Can I call you back?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Florent.” I hang up and meet Jack’s confused gaze.

“That was the head of the museum’s security,” I explain. “He’s going to check the tapes. It’ll save us time from running around the place, if Charlie’s already hightailed it out of here.”

Jack looks impressed. “And you just had his number on speed dial?”

“If it’s a place Charlie frequents, yeah, I’ve got connections.” I check the time on my watch. “It’s the only way I can do my job well. Work smarter, not harder, Long Beach. Remember that.” I pat his chest, and we both tense.

We keep doing that.

I drop my hand, tension erecting. Thankfully other things aren’t erecting right now.

Jack smiles a little. “I’ll keep it in mind. Tucked right next to distractions become extractions.”

I did say that. Right before I told him that I’d extract his ass from a room if his production crew interfered with my job of keeping Charlie safe. But that comment was during a filming segment of We Are Calloway. Had to be at least a couple years back, and I’m honestly kind of surprised he remembered it.

I’m about to reply when my phone buzzes in my palm.

I answer on the first ring. “Florent.”

“He left the Louvre around five minutes ago,” Florent tells me. “Out the Carrousel du Louvre entrance.”

Of course he exited to the mall.

Of course.

I grip my phone tighter. “Thanks, Florent. I owe you one.”

He says a quick goodbye in French and I hang up. “We have to make up some time,” I tell Jack. “How fast can you walk?”

He smiles. “I’m an athlete.”

“You’re a swimmer,” I remind him. “But how are you on land, Long Beach?”

“You just set the pace,” Jack says. “I’ll follow.”

We scour the mall and all of Charlie’s favorite cafés and spots to no avail. Now back at Charlie’s two-bedroom apartment in the Saint-Germain-des-Prés neighborhood, I pace the marbled floors and make as many calls as I possibly can.

None of my contacts have seen my client, but they’ll call me if he shows up. More likely, a random stranger will spot Charlie and post a pic of him on social media.

But I’ve got that covered too.

Jack is seated on the black leather couch, gold metal trim running down the side, and with his elbows on his knees, he scrolls through Instagram and Twitter.

He said he’d scour social media before I even asked if he could.

Production. He knows better than most people how the public would fawn over Charlie and post videos to the internet.

It hits me that this is the longest span of time I’ve ever been with Jack, just one-on-one. I’ve learned small things about him. Like how he can sprint.

Fast.

Like how he’ll hold open doors for every person, and the bright smile he’ll give them is never filled with fake kindness.

Like how he didn’t prepare for a spontaneous trip to Paris, but before boarding, he grabbed a blue bomber jacket and candy from his car.

He stuffed lollipops in his jean’s pocket.

If he were a friend, I’d give him shit for it—out of every piece of candy, a sucker—but I still don’t want him to be my friend.

Right now, the stick pokes out of his mouth while he scrolls on his phone. He shrugged on the blue bomber jacket, patches sewn in the fabric that say good vibes and totally rad. Along with a VW van and palm tree patch—he stands out.

To me.

He stands out to me, and I need to focus. “Anything?” I ask him as I slip my phone in my pocket.

“No. Charlie might as well have evaporated.” He speaks with the sucker against the inside of his mouth.

My dick between his lips. The image springs up instantly, and heat cascades down my body. It actually helps temper the boiling frustration I have towards my client.

Nope, that comes back.

I cage in an angry breath and stride to the bar. “Well, he’s got evaporation down to a science,” I say and bend down to a bottom drawer. “But unlucky for Charlie, I know how to find him.”