I arch an appreciative brow. “I like you even more now.”
He leans closer and murmurs, “It’s very mutual.” Then, he cups my cheek, holds my gaze, and breathes out my name: “Jules.”
He says it like I’m his not only for now, but beyond Paris.
I swoon. Too much. Too far.
After we eat, we head to the hotel, but he stops under a streetlamp on a corner and kisses me, making my head swim with desire and my heart burst with hope. “Was that on your list?” he asks. “Being kissed under a streetlamp in Paris?”
You are the list, I want to say.
But that’s too much. That’s not part of this deal. Instead I say, “It is now. You keep adding to it every night.”
There’s a glint in his eyes like he’s making a plan. “Good. Then I have something else to put on it.”
“What is it?”
“Let me make some calls,” he says.
I faux pout. “Tell me.”
“It’ll be worth it.”
You’re worth it, I want to say, but that, too, I keep to myself.
In the morning, as I’m spritzing on Come What May in my hotel room—which has become ours—he comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. “I have a surprise for you on our last night.”
“Will it be worth it?” I tease, calling back his words from an evening ago.
He kisses my neck, murmuring against my skin like he doesn’t want to leave Paris or me. “You’re worth it, Jules.”
My breath catches. I feel like I’m filling up with hope. I can’t stop picturing New York with him. Yes, my head knows New York will never happen. It can’t happen. And yet, my heart wants what it wants.
Does he imagine it too? Us in the city? Us finding a way?
But that’s foolish to even think about. My father would lose his mind, more than he has in the past. He’d say I’d disappointed him, that he’d expected better, that this is not the woman he’d raised me to be.
But that’s nothing compared to what he’d say to Finn. My father would never forgive his friend.
And I won’t destroy their friendship.
Yet I can’t stop picturing all the possibilities as we drink coffee at a café by the hotel twenty minutes later, chatting about our respective workdays ahead. As I lift a cup, I say, “Mud. I’ll miss our mud.”
That hardly covers these feelings.
“Me too,” he says, then seems like he’s about to say something else. Something like We’ll have better coffee in New York. In my kitchen, in the backyard, at a coffee shop, every day.
I swear, it’s on his lips. I can’t be the only one wishing for more. I can’t be the only one feeling so much it hurts. It’s like my heart is going to burst with all these emotions. “Maybe…” I begin, testing the word.
He smiles, soft and tender, receiving it with his own, “Maybe.”
This is so wild—this floaty feeling. I had no idea anything could feel so good. This is better than dancing, than inhaling flowers, than getting lost in a story. I’m getting lost in my own story, tuning out all the noises of Paris, all the sounds, the clicking of shoes, the clatter of silverware, the rumble of cars.
I live in the make-believe a little more as the city fades away. But when I open my eyes, I’m staring at Solange, who’s heading toward us, studying me like I make no sense anymore.
Like she can’t believe I’m sitting at a café enjoying a romantic morning with the man who owns the network.
26
IT’S NOT WHAT YOU THINK
Jules
A surge of panic rushes through my veins. My heart pounds so loud I’m sure everyone in the café can hear it.
Like, oh, say, Solange, who’s mere feet away. As she cocks her head and says, “Good morning, Jules,” my skin goes hot with a blush of discomfort. Where’s my poker face when I need it?
“Hi,” I say, but that little word is stuck in my throat. Do I still know how to speak?
Finn rises, sticks out a hand. “Good to see you, Solange. Have you tried this café? I can’t recommend the coffee in good conscience.”
He offers her a smile, but it’s one that says to me he’s going to handle this situation. Good, because I can’t.
“I don’t care for coffee,” she says as they shake.
“Join us for breakfast then. Jules and I were catching up on the plans for the show in New York next week,” he says as he sits back down, so easily, so seamlessly that even I believe him.
“It’ll be busy then too,” she says, but she’s assessing us, like she’s not sure she’s buying his cover-up. Embarrassment washes over me. Even if Finn’s not my direct boss, she must think less of me for this. She must think I’d sleep my way through the business. Everything I’ve worked hard for is spiraling because of my dumb heart.
“It will. Our American brand partners are all set though. Like we talked about the other day,” he adds.
That must have been when he came to the set, the evening he grabbed her eyeglasses.
“Yes, and I think I know how to integrate the watchmaker,” she says.
“Fantastic. Did you want to chat about it now?” he asks. I have no idea how he can be so normal, but I’m glad he is because I’m not.
She looks at her own watch, a functional, waterproof-looking one that is pure Solange. “I can’t now,” she says crisply, then glances at our empty cups on the table.
It’s just coffee. Please let that be all she thinks this is.
“But later is fine,” she says, then turns to me. “When you come in, let’s have a chat about the New York scenes coming up next week. Is the fountain at Lincoln Center really the best location for the breakup shot? Or should we do it on set instead?”
Changing a location from the streets of New York to the studio is easy enough. “I’m partial to Lincoln Center, but if you think something like the office set is better, then I’ll make it happen.”
With a sigh, she taps her chin, clearly weighing the options. “I’ll think on it.”
Her words are polite, but there is a cutting edge to them.
Could I lose my job? Will she say something to Bridger? Will he say something to my dad? Finn didn’t even touch me in public.
Still, I must be wearing all my thoughts on my face. I’m falling in love with this man.
My gaze drops to the ground as heat spreads across my cheeks.
She’s a woman I respect: a sharp, no-nonsense producer. How could I have let myself get so close to Finn? What was I thinking?
But for once, I wasn’t thinking. I was only feeling.
“You must be staying nearby,” Finn says to her when she shows no signs of leaving.
“Yes. My hotel, too, is around the corner,” she says, and that too makes me think she’s been aware of us for longer than I’ve realized.
My stomach twists with guilt and shame. “It’s a nice hotel,” I say, and I sound like a chastened child. I feel like one.
“It’s terrific,” she says. “Well, I better go. I’ll see you shortly, I trust?” The question is directed at me in a concerned tone.