Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
He’s speaking French. I don’t know the language, but I can figure it out. “You regret nothing?”
“Yep.”
He sounds delightfully smug. And the memory of yesterday flickers before my eyes, hot and bright. Pleasure curls in my belly, a reminder of what he did to me.
I’m supposed to be moving on. Resetting. Yet I have no regrets either. “Same here,” I admit as I set Bippity on the couch with the others.
“Yeah?” he asks, sounding…happy.
“Even though you’re the worst.”
“I’ll make it up to you,” he says smoothly.
I’m too intrigued by his promise to let it go, though I should. I’m sure I should. Instead, I ask, “How?”
Even with the noise of the Canadian city, I can hear a low rumble in his voice—god bless deep sounds. Then he says, “You could let me taste you properly.”
I gasp, faux annoyed, but really, I’m turned on. “We’re not supposed to do that,” I say, but it sounds like the lady doth protest too much.
“You don’t sound mad,” he observes.
“I was mad. I thought I was a terrible dog-sitter,” I say, trying to steer the conversation back to safer territory.
“You’re doing great,” he reassures me, dropping the flirting. “That was my fault.”
“Next time, leave instructions for the escape artist,” I say, not truly annoyed anymore.
“I will,” he promises. “I was distracted yesterday. But that’s on me. I should have given you a heads-up about her tricks. I’m glad you called, though, even though I was about to call you.”
“Spy,” I mutter, though a part of me likes how much he was paying attention.
“I only used my dog-cam for good,” he says, then pauses. “Anyway…I’m glad you called because it’s good to hear your voice.”
I told myself I was resetting, moving on. But now, all I want is to talk to him. “How’s Montreal?”
“J’aime cette ville,” he says.
“I love it here?” I ask.
“I love this city, so close enough.”
“And do you speak French?”
“Only enough to be dangerous.”
“How did you learn it?” I ask. “Or if I go into your library, will I find books written in French?”
He laughs. “I’m not that good. I read in English, but I know enough to get by since I went to McGill.”
Oh, right. “I remember that.”
“You remember it?”
“I looked up your bio. After I met you,” I admit.
He laughs softly. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
I roll my eyes. “Stop. I’ve said plenty of nice things.”
“True. You have. But that’s up there.”
“Wow. I need to raise the bar for myself then,” I say, petting Bippity to calm her—and, if I’m honest, myself.
“No, don’t change a thing,” he says. “I’m also good with languages. It comes easily.”
“I’m not jealous at all,” I say.
“You know another language,” he points out.
I smile. “True. I do.” Then I glance at the time, sighing. “I should go. I have a boudoir shoot.”
“Too bad,” he says, sighing with some reluctance. “I was going to the Museum of Illusions with the guys, and I stepped down an alley behind an old church to talk to you instead.”
“Me over illusions with the guys. Quite the compliment,” I say, but inside I’m giddy.
“I’d always choose you,” he says, and the air escapes my lungs. I’m quiet for a beat, the stillness humming in the air.
It’s like his words have settled into the distance between us, bridging the miles. “I don’t know what to say,” I whisper.
Because what I really want to say would make this even more complicated.
I want to say—choose me.
“It’s okay. I just wanted to say it,” he replies, then adds, in a tone full of longing, “thanks for calling. You can call anytime.”
I know he means it. I hang up, and before I go, I snap a photo of Bippity, lounging with smug indifference in her heated dog bed now, alongside the others in a row of little dog hot tubs, and send it to him with a caption: Your fur sister has zero remorse.
Miles: What can I say? She’s got my stubborn streak. But I promise I’ll make it up to you.
I think back to the deal we made, to the reset I promised myself. But here I am, breaking my own rules. And the truth is, I regret nothing too.
Leighton: Counting down the days.
Even though I shouldn’t.
“You looked beautiful,” I tell Sophie once more as she lingers in the doorway of the studio. She booked the session as an engagement gift for her fiancé. He got me a ring; I’m giving him silk and skin, she’d said earlier, spinning around in red and black lingerie—his favorites.
“Is it weird that I felt beautiful?” she asks, her hand resting lightly on the red door.
I shake my head, smiling. “Not weird at all. That’s fantastic. I’ll be in touch soon to show you the whole set.”
“Can’t wait,” she says, and with a bounce in her step that wasn’t there when she arrived, she disappears down the staircase.