His finger presses to my chin, lifting my face to his. ‘Anyone who doesn’t see what an incredible woman you are is an idiot.’ I’m not sure if we’re talking about prospective dates now or my dad, but I find it hard to respond either way.
He frowns, moving closer, and right before he kis
ses me he says something no one’s ever said to me before, something that makes my gut lurch. ‘You deserve every happiness, Asha. You deserve everything.’
Out of nowhere, I wonder about him. I wonder what he wants and what he deserves. I wonder if he thinks I deserve him. The question catches me off-guard. It’s unwelcome and inappropriate so I ignore it. I surrender to his kiss—nothing else seems to matter right now anyway.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘THIS ISN’T WHAT I expected.’ He looks around my place with a smile on his lips that is my undoing. God, when will I not crave him?
I follow his gaze, seeing this apartment through his eyes. In the eighteenth arrondissement, nestled a stone’s throw from Sacré Coeur, this place is almost exactly as Grand-mère left it. Bright, so bright, with stunning wallpapers everywhere, sumptuous velvet furnishings, original Impressionist artwork, lamps that cast a warm glow, rugs that are hand woven from soft, beautiful wool. The French windows open onto a series of Juliet balconies, each framing a stunning view of Paris. But it’s not pretentious at all. It’s homely and beautiful, ultra-feminine and tactile.
‘No?’ He’s carrying both our bags. ‘The bedroom’s through there.’
He lifts a brow and I laugh. ‘To put our bags down.’
He grins and moves that way. A second later, I hear his laugh. ‘Holy hell.’
‘What?’ I move into the kitchen, flicking the kettle to life.
‘You actually sleep in that bed?’
I think of the elaborately sculpted four-poster with its ornate floral headpiece and grin. ‘Yep. It’s surprisingly comfortable.’
‘Once you get rid of the hundred pillows?’
‘There are a lot of throw cushions, aren’t there?’
I make a couple of teas and reach into the fridge. As usual, Kevin’s had it stocked for me; there’s a range of food as well as milk, wine, juice. I finish the tea as Theo emerges.
‘Let me guess,’ I say at his look of bemusement. ‘You have a place in Paris and it’s nothing like this?’
His eyes show amusement. ‘I don’t think there’s anything like this. Anywhere.’
‘It was my grand-mère’s,’ I explain. ‘I didn’t feel right changing it, once she died.’ I look around, a fond smile on my lips. ‘If you knew her, you’d understand. So much of who she was is wrapped up in this place. Coming here, it’s like coming home to her. I feel her everywhere.’
‘Ah.’ He nods, moving towards one of the photo frames that sit above the fireplace. He picks it up, a smile on his lips. ‘You?’
I nod, lifting my tea and cradling it in my palms as I walk closer towards him. ‘I would have been about twelve, I think.’
‘Did you come here often?’
‘Most summers.’
He’s quiet, but it’s a silence that speaks volumes. I hear his questions, yet it’s late and I’m tired. ‘I made you a tea.’
He looks down at me, a smile tipping his lips. ‘That was kind of you.’
‘You don’t drink tea?’
‘Not once in my life.’
‘Try it; you might like it.’
‘I’m okay.’ He grins, but then sobers. ‘What do you have on tomorrow?’
‘Meetings.’