Late Call (Volume 1) (23 page)

I say nothing.

“I’ve left one for you every day since we arrived in Vegas.”

“Why didn’t I find them?”

“You never wanted to find them.”

“This one was obvious. It was behind my damn robe!” I put the lipstick on the counter, and he runs his eyes over his own words. “What happened to the others?”

“I kept them.”

This surprises me. “Why?”

“Because I hoped that one day you’d be ready to read them.” He takes my hand and places the note back in my hand. “But you are now.”

He disappears. I watch him go and watch the empty space that joins the main room to the bedroom until he reappears, a stack of small, brightly colored squares in his hand. “
Forse il tuo forse non è sufficiente quando i tuoi occhi mi lasciano senza fiato e il tuo tocco mi fa sentire vivo. Non quando l’amore che abbiamo avuto è bollente sotto la superficie. Non quando sono così pronta a permettere al mio amore per te di consumare me ancora una volta. And in French. Peut-être que ce n’est pas assez quand tes yeux me laissent à bout de souffle et votre contact me fait me sentir vivant. Pas quand l’amour que nous avions est en ébullition sous la surface. Quand je suis prêt à laisser mon amour pour vous de me consumer à nouveau.
”

“What does it mean? Tell me. Please.”

He hands me the notes. “Read them first.”

I take them and flick through. My heart pounds a little harder and my breathing hitches a little more and tears fill my eyes a little quicker at each one.

True love is never letting go, despite all the odds being against you. I never let go.

Two thousand, seven hundred and seventy four days. That’s how long I waited and wished for you.

I look into your eyes and see everything I’ve always wanted. Everything I’ve wanted since I realized the coffee you spilled on your shirt matched the shade of your eyes perfectly.

I love it when you smile at me—really smile at me. I can almost pretend you remember as much as I do.

They go on and on, telling me everything he’s never said aloud and some things he has, like the repetition is necessary for me to believe it. Either way, these notes are everything I never wanted to hear. Everything that would make me fall again.

“You said maybe you believed in romance. And I said maybe isn’t enough when your eyes leave me breathless and your touch makes me feel alive. Not when the love we had is boiling beneath the surface. When I’m so ready to let my love for you to consume me again.”

Air fills my lungs with one short, sharp inhale, and I fall into him. The Post-its scatter on the floor around us, but I don’t care. All I care about is burying my face into the chest of this man I’ve loved since I knew what love was and wondering what the fucking hell I’m going to do.

I cling to the back of his robe. “Why didn’t I find them?
Why?
”

“I wanted you to look,” he whispers into my neck. “I wanted you to look for something that was so glaringly obvious to me. Something you were oblivious to.”

“How was I supposed to find them if I never knew?”

“I don’t know. Jesus.” He cups the back of my head. “I’ve done a whole lot of fucking hoping since you walked into that goddamn booth, Dayton. I hoped every morning you’d find them, and when each night you hadn’t, a little bit of that hope died.”

“That’s why you wanted to drop the call girl stuff.”

“No.” He pulls back and looks me dead in the eye. I’ve never seen his gaze so hard and determined. “No. I wanted you drop that bullshit because that’s not who you are to me. You will
never
be that person to me. I accept it, but I know you better.”

“You know me from years ago.”

“No. I know the woman who lies about loving Bambi and being amazed by the Eiffel Tower. I know the woman who hides her emotions behind a barbed-wire fence because it’s what society expects of her. And I know the beautiful, passionate, playful woman hiding behind that fence.” His words wrap around me in a blanket of comfort and security. “And that’s the woman I’ll take.”

I know those words. I know what they mean.
Him or my job.
A choice. An ultimatum.

And not an unfair one.

Also not one I’m going to respond to right now.

“
Trust me,
” he said. Trust him I did.

At seventeen, I would have followed Aaron Stone to the very depths of hell and back again if I’d had to. I’m not sure if, at twenty-four, that would be much different.

After forcing me to eat my breakfast, he shoved me into the bedroom and practically pulled my damn dress over my head before getting himself dressed. And I have to admit, that’s something I both loathed and enjoyed. Seeing his naked body is always beautiful, but his covering it up? Not so much.

Now we’re walking the streets of Paris. His fingers are linked through mine and he’s barely said a word as he drags me across quaint cobbled streets I know I should recognize. He shakes his head at all my questions. He curls his lips at all my annoyed prods. He rolls his eyes at all my groans that heels can’t take the endless hobbles.

“My feet hurt,” I whine. “You could have warned me. I think my feet are actually breaking.”

“For fuck’s sake, Day.” He stops. “Get on my back.”

I laugh loudly. “Are you kidding me? I’m wearing a dress!”

“Believe me. I’ll make sure no one can see that gorgeous red and black set you thought I didn’t notice you sneaking on this morning.”

“I don’t doubt it.” I put my hands on his shoulders. “Do you know how crazy this is?”

“It’s only as crazy as you make me, woman. Hurry up before I change my mind.”

“Aaron Stone, soon-to-be CEO of Stone Advertising is giving me a piggyback ride through Paris.” I snort and bury my face in his shoulder blade. He slides his hand up my thigh and smacks my ass, and I laugh. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just kind of funny. How many super powerful businessmen do you see doing this?”

“I wouldn’t know. If they don’t, I’d imagine they’d have no idea how to treat their women. God forbid she should have sore feet.”

I slap his chest. “So shoot me. I forgot how many streets here were covered in stones.”

“The only stone you need to worry about is me, sweetheart.” He squeezes my thighs. I grin. “I’m harder to deal with than all of these fuckers put together.”

“Only because you’re demanding and controlling and a pain in my frigging ass.”

“Watch it, woman. I’m controlling, remember?”

“Ooh, what are you gonna do? Tie my wrists to a bed and fuck the breath out of me?”

He shifts his body so I fall to one side. He catches me elegantly, flattening my body against his. “Damn fucking right I am.” His mouth covers mine with a heat I feel everywhere. “I didn’t hear any complaints from you that night.”

“Uh-uh.” I shake my head and put my finger against his lips. “The next time we fuck, I’m in control.”

“Is that right?”

“You have no idea how right it is until you’ve been truly fucked by me.”

“I’ve been fucked a thousand times.”

“Baby, you haven’t been fucked by me. Tonight you can put away your controlling demands because I’m the one taking the reins.”

He pulls my hips against his, and his erection digs into my hip. “Is that right?”

“You bet your ass it is.” I kiss him hard, pushing myself into him. “Now, where are we going?”

His eyes change from dark to bright blue. “You’re a temptress, Dayton Black.”

“Cock tease is what I’m used to hearing, but I’ll take both.” I pull him forward. “Where are you taking me?”

“I’m taking you to the place where I realized I was in love with you.”

My eyebrows shoot into my hairline. “This isn’t the way to the Eiffel Tower.”

He smirks and spins us so he’s leading the way. I watch him as he walks—his strong strides swallowing up the sidewalk, his gaze focused on his destination, and his jaw firmly set.

“That’s where you say, ‘No, Bambi. This is the place I realized for the second time I was in love with you.’”

“Dayton Black.”

“Aaron Stone.”

“Shut up for once in your life. Shut those gorgeous red lips and follow me.”

“I’ve been following you for ages.”

“And thank fucking god we’re here.”

I look to the side. And stop. Everything. I stop breathing and thinking, and my heart stops beating. “
Pont de l’Archevêché,
” I breathe. The narrow bridge is covered with padlocks, every inch of it having one of the metal locks attached to it.

Aaron smirks and spins, facing me. His feet are at the end of the bridge, and he steps back, mouthing something at each step. What the hell is he doing?

“Here,” he says and bends down.

I frown at him from the end of the bridge. There’s no way he can find it. There is absolutely no fucking way he knows where it is.

“Here,” he repeats with more conviction, a padlock in his hands. He turns to face me. “It’s here.”

“There are thousands on padlocks on this bridge. You honestly think I believe you know the exact place ours is?”

“Twenty-eight steps in, roughly.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Kind of halfway down because you had a freak-out about it not being even.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Silver and gold. We scratched our initials in with a penknife we found in my suite.”

So much emotion rises in me at that memory. The moment I realized forever would never happen with the guy I loved beyond belief.

I swallow the remembered pain. “If it’s ours, what’s under my initials?”

“A hoof print. Just like Bambi’s.” He glances at it. “Come see if you don’t believe me.”

My legs take me toward him. They shake the whole time, and I hide my trembling hands around my waist. I stop beside him and know he’s right before I bend down. I know that the padlock he holds in his hand is ours, the one we so lovingly carved our initials into. The one I painstakingly carved a deer’s print into so we’d always remember it was ours. So if we ever found it, we would know.

It’s unmistakable. A generic lock like so many others, yet so unique.

I stare at it in disbelief and cover my mouth with my hand. “How do you even know where it is?”

“I counted. As we walked away, I counted the steps to the end of the bridge. Just in case.” He stands and pulls a second from his pocket.

I reach my hand out but hesitate and curve my fingers back. I swallow all the crazy shit pounding and clenching in my chest and take the padlock from his hand.

Our names are on it. Not our initials. Our names. Perfectly inscribed and underlined by the date we first met.

I curl my fingers around the cold metal. It feels as natural as it did the first time we stood on this bridge with a lock exactly the same. I bend down and hook it around the bridge beneath the first one. Aaron kneels next to me and wraps his arm around my body. His hands cover my shaking ones and lock it into place. My lips part the instant it clicks, and he holds up a small gold key.

“I threw the first time,” he says into my ear. “Now it’s your turn.”

I take it and stand, staring at the River Seine, the way it winds around and through the city until I can’t see it bend any longer. I feel his hot breath on my cheek and his hands at my hips and his body at my side.

And I tighten my grip on the tiny key. It digs into my palm but I ignore the sting. I already know I’m going to throw it. And I know what throwing it means. Everyone does. Every damn couple that visits Paris knows what this signifies.

The first time, he threw it, and in my mind, I promised the summer. I promised what I knew I could give. I promised him all I could.

This time, I’m throwing.

This time, I’m the one making the real promise.

This time, I’m promising him that I’ll love him forever.

Regardless of what happens when we touch back down in Seattle, when real life intersects with this magical rendezvous, I’m promising him that he’ll always have my heart.

I’ll never love another the way I love him.

I pull my arm back. With his fingers at my hips, I force my arm forward. He inhales deeply.

The key hits the water with a tiny splash and sinks.

I curl into his hold, offering a forever my heart can guarantee but my body can only hope for.

Moulin Rouge.

The movie every teenage girl watches, wishing she could be Nicole Kidman. The first time I saw it, I know I spent the whole time wishing I were. Wishing I had my own Ewan McGregor acting as Christian.

Except I do. And he’s been plying me with wine all night. By the time we leave the building headed by a bright red windmill, the night air certainly gets to me.

I tilt my head to the side and gaze at him all through the journey back to the hotel. Aaron smirks, scratching at his neck, and I can tell by the tightness of his jaw that he’s fighting the urge to look at me. Like it’s a mammoth, nearly fucking impossible task not to meet my eyes when I’m staring at him as if I want him naked right this very fucking second.

Our journey through the hotel foyer consists of my calculated steps and his hand twitching at my waist. The seconds in the elevator are taken up by the aimless traveling of his fingers up and down my side. They’re filled with sparks of need jolting through my body.

Aaron locks the suite door behind us, and I walk to the fridge. The wine bottle is cold beneath my fingers, and I focus on each drop falling into my glass instead of him watching me.

“Dayton.” My name leaves him, hot and heavy.

I turn, meeting dark blue eyes filled with a need so intense it engulfs my body in red-hot flames. He approaches me and closes his fingers over mine. Just when I expect him to pull the glass away, he doesn’t. He lifts it to my mouth and tilts. His breath is hot against my neck, and his chest smolders against my back as I down the wine before me.

“I’ve always loved Moulin Rouge.” I run my finger around the rim of my empty glass. “Do you think I could do the dances like they do?”

“Oh, Jesus,” he mutters.

I spin from his hold and catch my tongue between my teeth as I cast my eyes around the room. They fall on the coffee table in the middle of the room, and my lips curve into a wicked grin.

I throw a glance over my shoulder and move toward it. A deep chuckle fills the room when I climb up onto it. I pause for a second to catch my balance and smirk at him.

“Well, do you think I can?”

“Dayton, get off the table. You’ll break your damn neck.” He makes a grab for me but misses as I step back.

I waggle my finger in his face. “You don’t get to tell me what to do tonight, remember? I’m in charge. Ooh la la!” I wink saucily and spin.

My body contorts and undulates as I recreate a routine from the show from my tabletop stage. I keep my balance and dance like it’s what I was made to do—like I should have been a fucking stripper instead of a call girl.

Despite his concern for my safety, Aaron makes no move to get me off the table. I expected his arms to loop around my waist and pull me off or that he’d climb up and sling me over his shoulder. He does neither. He does nothing but stand and watch me with his hands resting in front of his body.

I’m laughing as I dance, but I’m more aware of him that anything I’m doing or feeling. I’m more conscious of the way he’s fiddling with the cufflink at his right wrist, the way his lips are curved into a wanting smirk, and the way his eyes shamelessly roam over my body. More than that, more than all three things put together, I’m aware of the gradual darkening of the blue hue of his irises. I’m aware of the building lust and need and raw sexuality that swirl in them, reaching out to me and surrounding me.

And they do. Surround me. Completely and utterly.

My body heats to an unimaginable level, and every part of me begs to be touched by him. Tingles, tugs, wanting trembles… They overtake me again and again, leaving my skin covered in goose bumps and my heart pounding.

Then his eyes meet mine. They finish their visual caress of my body and find mine in a heated collision that makes me stop dead. It takes my breath away—the intensity in his gaze. It makes me brave and shy and wanton all at the same time in a crazy mix of conflicting emotion.

He steps closer and reaches out to me. This time, I let him rest his hands on my waist and lift me from the table. I take a deep breath. He runs his fingers up my arm and across my shoulder, teasing the skin at my neck as they find their way to my jaw.