Paris with the Billionaire

“Really?” she murmurs.

“Yes, really,” I growl.

“What and eat in our rooms?” she says.

“No,” I chuckle, my voice deep and grim. “Eat together, of course. After all, we’re roommates now.”

Chapter Three

Fiona

I sit opposite Forrest on the balcony. The sun has set now and the Eiffel Tower is bright with shining lights, seeming to glow down just for us. The late-spring air has a chill to it, but Forrest has turned on the balcony heating, warm fans blasting us and making my skin tingly.

Forrest leans back in the chair opposite, smirking over at me, his eyes glinting in that hard-to-read way.

I don’t understand why he’s doing this.

Is he just being polite?

Our platters steam under the lids, the steam rising into the air as the waiter leans down to remove them with a flourish. I breathe in the scent of my steak and fries, my belly rumbling with hunger. I haven’t eaten since the flight, but when I see how juicy that steak is, I have to remind myself to eat it like a lady.

The last thing I need is to come across like a pig in front of Forrest.

But why? a voice cries inside of me. It doesn’t matter how he sees you. He’d laugh if he knew you were crushing on him.

I swallow and place my hands in my lap, worrying them together as the waiter retreats, leaving a pitcher of soda and two glasses next to our silver platters.

“This smells delicious,” I murmur.

“Only the best at my hotels,” he smirks.

I gaze at Paris, at the tower glinting down at me, making me feel small and warm and impossible.

“I can’t believe I’m here,” I murmur.

“In Paris or in this hotel?”

I want to tell him I meant with him. When he said he wanted to share the room, I was certain it was a joke, the sort of cruel bullying the high school jocks used to indulge in.

But he seems serious.

We’re going to stay here together.

How the heck am I supposed to stop myself from drooling over him?

He’s more mouth-watering than the freaking steak.

“Both,” I laugh.

He cuts into his steak, grinning at me like a wolf.

“What are you waiting for, firecracker?” he says.

“Firecracker,” I murmur. “I don’t think you’d call me that if you knew me, Forrest.”

“The way you were ready to use that laptop as a weapon, I’d say you’re wrong about that. Maybe you’re a firecracker hiding in a shy girl’s body, eh?”

My chest flares with a thousand fireworks, erupting over and over at his words. I’ve always thought of myself, secretly, in this way, that if I were given the chance I would burst out of my shell and shock the world, or at least myself.

I would never expect a man like Forrest, a billionaire who’s been on the cover of the sleekest magazines in the world, to see the same in me.

I wouldn’t expect him to see anything in me.

His smirk widens.

The light dances in his silver hair.

“You’re a firecracker, Fiona,” he says. “You’re a lioness.”

I giggle, shaking my head.

“And you are too kind,” I say.

“Nope,” he replies a matter of fact. “I’m just telling you how I see it. Now, eat your food.”

I force myself to cut slowly, despite the hunger driving me to fall upon the meal like a savage.

I want to fall upon him in the same way, too, bite into the meatiness of his shoulder instead of the steak.

I eat a mouthful of steak, trying my best not to make a moaning sound of satisfaction. It’s crazy enough that this billionaire has, out of a sense of politeness, decided to have dinner with me. The last thing I need to do is gross him out with my food-love noises.

But I must make some noise.

He smirks over at me. “Enjoying that?”

I turn my gaze down, shame scorching through me, leaving a trail of fire-hot resentment blazing in my chest.

I wish I could turn back time and make it so I never had a single bite.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, after swallowing it quickly. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Sorry?” he growls. “Why are you sorry, Fiona? You’re enjoying your food. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

I risk a glance at him, searching his gleaming eyes for any sign that he’s secretly making fun of me. But he just stares at me with understanding flickering across his powerful features.

I imagine him walking through the hallways of my old high school, his broad shoulders making it look so small and insignificant. I imagine the way the jerks and the bullies would flinch in his wake, finally realizing that they’re not cool or significant or anything even remotely impressive, not when my man is on the prowl.

But he’s not my man.

I can’t keep letting my thoughts dance to those crazy places.

I have to remember that he’d laugh at me if I ever said something like that aloud, instead of leaving it imprisoned in my mind.