One to Chase (One to Hold 7)

“What can I say?” He holds out an elegant palm. “I found myself missing you.”

No shit. I’ve been ignoring his texts for two weeks. God damned, pushy Frenchman. It’s all about his ego. He’s never listened to a word I say, and he’s still not listening to me. If he weren’t such a fucking talented lover, I’d have ended it months before I left Paris.

Sylvia is the picture of hospitality. She can’t help herself, but I wish she would. “How long will you be in town, Mr. Rocher?”

“My plane leaves Sunday...” He winks at me. “But you know how plane tickets are. Easily changed.”

“How lovely!” My mother’s eyes lighten. “Darling, you should take him to the BGCB gala on Saturday. Use my tickets.”

“Sylvia!” My gasp is a knee-jerk response, and fucking Armand is right on it.

A sly grin crosses his lips. “I would be honored to be your escort.”

My mother quickly ascertains her misstep and tries to backpedal. “I’m sorry... I, um, Mr. Rocher.” She gives him a nod, but the damage is done. “It’s past my bedtime.”

She stands and makes a little gesture of farewell. Our guest is on his feet at once, taking her small hand. “Of course. Forgive me for calling so late.”

He kisses both her cheeks briefly, and Sylvia tells me a sheepish goodnight before retreating to her suite. I want to be angry with her, but I can’t. Armand is gorgeous and charming, and I don’t blame her for thinking I would want to be with him. For a while I did.

The room is quiet in her absence, and I’m still in the kitchen, arms crossed over my stomach. He’s in the center of the

living room, impeccably dressed in a dark, well-tailored suit, white shirt, no tie. His dark hair is swept back from his face, and something new—a light scruff is on his cheeks.

“Amalie.” I can’t tell if he intends to say my name in the same, husky way he used to when we were fucking, but I’m pretty sure he did. “You never returned my calls. I tried texting you—”

“I told you I was moving home.” My voice is flat, not encouraging.

He strides toward me, light flashing in his dark-brown eyes. “Your home is in France with me.”

“It most certainly is not.”

Dark eyes rake over my body, and I wish I had on more than my filmy, racer-back coral dress. (Again.) I had no idea I needed the power wardrobe tonight.

“We spent six months—six incredible months together, and now you’re saying it meant nothing to you?”

He’s fighting the urge to grab me. I can tell. I’ve been in this situation with men before. Hell, I was just in it with Marcus... Only that time my response couldn’t have been more different.

Still, I know how to handle Armand. Give his emotions a chance to cool.

“Have a glass of wine,” I say, starting for the refrigerator.

He doesn’t let me get there. He loses the battle with himself and grabs my upper arms, giving me a small shake.

“Look in my eyes, Amalie.” Blinking up to the dark depths, I try to convey the distance now between us. His expression breaks. “How is this possible?”

“It’s possible because I told you from the start. You’re a wonderful person, a good friend. But we were only fucking.”

“What is this, ‘only fucking’?” He throws up his hands, shaking his head. “Who says that and means it?”

“I do.” My voice is quiet, and I’m not sorry. I own my choices, and I resent others trying to push me around.

Turning back, he inspects me for several moments. On his face is a mixture of disbelief and frustration. He wants me to rewrite history for him, be weak.

Yet, if I pinned him down, he would be the first to admit my strength, my fight, is the very thing making him want to possess me. Remove that, and I could clock how fast he’d turn into the typical Frenchman. He’d be cheating on me within a year.

“Listen,” I gently place a hand on his biceps. It’s a dangerous move, as any sign of wavering only prolongs the inevitable. “I don’t mean this to hurt you. I was quite serious when I laid our ground rules.”

His head shakes. “And that’s it. No changing. No matter how close we get.”