All day we have laughed and held hands and carried on like kids in love.
I’m not sure that Tristan Miles is as hard as I once thought he was.
“And the answer was no,” he says softly.
“To what?” I’m confused as to what he’s talking about.
“I don’t remember if I dated any beautiful women.”
I frown.
“Because,” he whispers as his eyes drop to my lips, “at this moment, all I can think about . . . is you.”
My heart beats faster as we stare at each other, and I want to go around to his side of the table and take him into my arms and kiss him.
But I can’t.
I can’t imagine that this is more than it is, that his pretty words are more than just pretty words. Because he’s a fantasy man, and we can’t be anything more than a weekend away. Our lives are too different—we . . . are too different.
I know that.
“What’s going to happen tonight when everyone sees me naked on the stage at the Moulin Rouge?” I ask.
“I’ll be fighting the men off.” He chuckles. “Probably the women too.”
I giggle and pick up my wine. I hold my glass out and clink it with his.
“To naked brawling,” I whisper.
His eyes twinkle with a certain something. “Naked anything, where you’re concerned.”
This poor, deluded man. Since when did cellulite and stretch marks become hot? I bet he never thought he would see the day. I giggle. “You must be sick of seeing me naked, Mr. Miles.”
“Anderson, I’m just getting started.”
We walk out through the departure lounge of the private part of the airport. Tristan is wheeling both of our suitcases behind him, and we walk in through large glass doors from the tarmac. One lone lady is checking and stamping passports to let us into the country. “Hello, Mr. Miles.” She smiles.
Jeez, he flies so much that the staff all know him.
“Hello, Margarete,” he says. “Where’s Boris?”
“On day shift today.”
She opens his passport. “How was Paris?”
“Parfaite.” He smiles.
She giggles on cue, and I smirk over at him.
Flirt.
She stamps our passports, and we look into the eye-scanner thingy.
This is so much more civilized than standing in the queue for an hour.
“Goodbye, Margarete,” he says as he pulls our two suitcases through another huge door. When we walk out, I look around, disoriented. Oh, we are in the foyer of the airport. I never knew that these doors into this private part of the airport were even here.
“Where are you parked?” Tristan asks.