Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHLOE
T he corners of Roman’s mouth curl. “Why? Are you surprised?”
He knows very well that I wasn’t expecting this. But I won’t hold his cockiness against him. Not when I’m absolutely delighted. “I am, actually. This isn’t where I imagined you’d want to eat.”
The driver opens the door for me, and with one more glance at Roman, I climb out. On the narrow sidewalk, I look up at the quaint wooden front of the bistro in front of me. The cozy space on the other side of the large windows is lit by wall sconces and full of chattering diners sitting at tables covered with red and white-checked tablecloths.
Roman steps up beside me, his head dipped like he’s trying to hide his smile. “That’s because you assume I only eat food worthy of a Michelin star.”
I gape at him, my pulse going haywire and my mind flashing back to the night we worked late and ordered from my favorite pizza place.
“Because you’re a billionaire who wears thousand-dollar suits, rides around in a chauffeur-driven car, only dates women who look like supermodels, and probably has a home chef to whip up food worthy of a Michelin starred restaurant.”
He remembered that comment? Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s the most detail-oriented person I know.
“So you brought me to a hole-in-the-wall Parisian bistro?”
He shrugs his broad shoulders. “I thought after a long day you might be more comfortable eating here than a fine-dining restaurant. And the food is amazing.”
“You’ve been here before?” Though I’d never admit it, the idea that he might have brought some beautiful French model here, or maybe even Katherine, lodges itself like a rock in my throat.
His eyes pierce into me, as if he can sense the direction of my thoughts. “I haven’t. But Cole and Delilah raved about it after their last visit.”
Irrational relief sends blood surging to my cheeks. I turn toward the restaurant so he can’t see my reaction. “I can’t wait to see for myself.”
Just then, a couple exits the bistro, and the delicious scent wafting out of the open door makes my stomach grumble at an embarrassing volume.
Roman steps forward to catch the door before it shuts and holds it open for me.
Once we’re inside, a server approaches and speaks in French. Roman, of course, responds in kind. Because of course he’s fluent in French. It’s not like he needs anything else to make him more attractive.
Beaming, the server ushers us to a table for two in a dimly lit corner.
When we reach it, Roman pulls my chair out for me, and once I’m seated, he takes the seat opposite me. He discarded his tie and undid the top button of his shirt long ago, but now he rolls up the cuffs of his Oxford shirt, revealing his toned forearms.
I have to fight the urge to lick my lips at the sight. Every square inch of him, from his face to his chest to his arms and his large hands, conjures thoughts I have no business thinking.
Dirty, dirty thoughts.
Like the ones I have at night, when I’m alone in the dark. Thoughts that have me sliding my fingers between my thighs as I imagine those big hands on me, touching me, bending me over the desk in his office, sliding inside me and making me feel good.
My core clenches.
I’ve done my best to remain composed around him. But every moment we spend together makes it harder. And after these last few days—the things he’s done for me, the moments of intimacy—my attraction is burning out of control.
I’m behaving in ways I never would have dreamed of behaving around my boss. Every time he gets close, my brain and body go haywire.
Like the moment in the Louvre where I let my barriers down and flirted with him. It was impossible to ignore the impulse when he was looking at me with an intensity that had me breathless. When he was so close, the heat rolling off his big body soaked into mine, and his crisp, citrusy scent invaded my senses.
Desire sparked a desperate heated tension inside me. A need to touch and be touched. To explore the chemistry that flares to life every time we’re near each other.
He did the right thing, the smart thing, and shut it down. Kept both of us on the right side of the line we drew.
Except now we’re here. In this quaint bistro, tucked away in a corner of Paris, surrounded by the kind of scents that make me salivate almost as much as Roman’s sheer existence does.
He remembered my words from months ago . And rather than take me to a fancy restaurant he would probably choose for himself, he brought me here.
That knowledge has my heart fluttering in time with the butterflies in my stomach.
When the server returns, Roman orders wine—in French again, the way the words roll off his tongue only fanning the flames of desire burning hot inside me.
To distract myself, I bury my face in my menu. I was worried I wouldn’t be able to read the options, but thankfully, they’ve included the English description in brackets for people like me.
The food choices here are far more rustic than at the hotel restaurant in Nice last night. Everything sounds amazing, but I end up ordering crab and celeriac in remoulade sauce to start, and for my meal, I choose the “bistro classic” of truffle croque monsieur and a green salad.
Roman orders the same, and when my mouth pops open, he raises a brow. “What?”
“I just… I don’t know, thought you’d get the Beef Bourguignon or the pan-fried scallops, something like that.”
He leans back in his chair, resting one hand on the table. A smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “Cole raves about the croque monsieur. Swears it’s almost as good as the first grilled cheese Delilah ever made him, whatever that means.”
I’ve never seen him like this, so… I wouldn’t say relaxed. Maybe just focused on something that isn’t work. And right now, that happens to be me. It’s a side of him I’ve never witnessed, and like this, it’s far too easy to imagine that this is actually a date. That the Roman sitting opposite me isn’t my billionaire boss, but the man who’s sweeping me off my feet and might even shower me with orgasms later.
“How are Cole and Delilah, anyway?” I ask, desperate for conversation that won’t entice me to crawl across the table and slide into his lap. “How’s your niece?”
“They’re adjusting.” He smirks, but the expression quickly softens. “Lottie is… adorable. She already has Cole wrapped around her little finger.”
“And what about her uncle?”
He ducks his head, a low laugh rumbling out of him. “I wouldn’t rule it out.”
My heart melts into a puddle of warm goo. So much for this being a safe topic. The thought that his tiny niece might have her big, intimidating uncle wrapped around her little finger makes him even more attractive and only heightens my urge to climb into his lap and press my lips to his.
Our server appears with the wine, thankfully distracting me from those thoughts. It’s smooth and light, refreshing me enough to rein in my libido, and when he turns our conversation back to some of the artwork we’ve just seen, I find it a little easier to keep myself in check.
By the time our main dishes arrive, the wine, the atmosphere, and our discussion have relaxed me.
Despite how delicious the crab starter was, my mouth waters when the server sets our plates in front of us. If I thought my meal would be a simple French version of a grilled cheese sandwich, I was wrong.
Slices of tender ham covered in a creamy truffle bechamel sauce are nestled between two thick slabs of bread toasted to perfection, and over the top of it all is a gooey, bubbly layer of melted Gruyère cheese. The warm, buttery aroma rising from it has me swooning.
I look from it to the utensils next to the plate. “I’m guessing we’re supposed to eat this with a knife and fork?”
The corners of his lips turn up. “Things might get… messy otherwise.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” I murmur, mostly to myself.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Some things are better when they’re messy.”
He did not just say that .
My eyes flash up to meet his, but he merely raises a brow in response. “Eat your food, Chloe.”
I pick up my knife and fork, cut into the sandwich with a satisfying crunch, and lift a bite to my mouth. As the blend of flavors hits me—the sharpness of the cheese, the subtle smokiness of the ham, and the creamy decadence of the truffle béchamel sauce—a soft moan escapes me, and I think my eyes roll back in my head.
It takes a moment to collect myself, and when I do, I find Roman fixated on me, his expression hot and hungry, sending liquid heat pouring through my veins in a dizzying rush.
“I’ll have to thank Cole for the recommendation,” he says, his voice raspy and sexy as hell.
“You haven’t even tried it yet.”
His eyes sear into me like a brand, his hand curling into a fist on the tabletop. “I don’t need to.”
The intensity with which he regards me has my pulse skyrocketing. Why is it that, no matter how often we take a step back from the line we both know we shouldn’t cross, we always end up back here, teetering on the edge?
“I want to know what you think.” My own voice is husky.
He studies me for another long moment, then, breaking the spell, he runs his tongue over his teeth and picks up his utensils.
As he cuts into it and raises his fork to his mouth, I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, holding back a smile. He locks eyes with me as he slides it into his mouth. Never in my life would I have believed that I could be so turned on by watching a man simply consume food. Yet here I am. Everything Roman does is sexy, including maintaining eye contact while he eats. Even the way his throat works as he swallows causes liquid heat to pool low in my belly.
Face warming, I clear my throat. “Good?”
“I’ll let Cole know I understand the appeal,” he says in a low voice that quickens my pulse.
I pick up my almost empty wineglass and press it against my heated cheek, trying to cool myself down.
Luckily the server appears, cutting the tension a little. After refilling our glasses, he moves on, and we veer away from intimate or suggestive topics. We talk a little about my college years and he asks about what I do outside of work. That leads to me telling him about Lola, and how we’ve been best friends since the first day of high school when I tripped and fell in the middle of the cafeteria, and she came to help me while the rest of the student body laughed.
I can smile about it now, but Roman glowers. Being the man he is, I can’t imagine he’s had much experience with being laughed at.
I wouldn’t know, though, because although he asks a lot about me, every time I try to find out more about him or his family, he effortlessly sidesteps the topic.
Still, by the time we’ve finished our meals and another glass of wine, I’m pleasantly warm and tingly. Which means the cooler air when we step outside to wait for the car makes me shiver slightly.
“Come here,” Roman says.
Like a moth too willing to get burned, I step closer. He’s not wearing a jacket, so he runs his hands gently up and down my bare arms to warm me.
With a sigh, I look up at him. “I’m sorry your meeting didn’t work out, but this day has been amazing, so thank you… again.” I let out a little self-conscious laugh.
His eyes are dark and serious as he stares down at me. “I’ve told you before, you don’t need to thank me.”
“Yes, I do.” The heat of his skin on mine is making me a little lightheaded. It’s the only explanation for why I angle my head to the side and say, “Has anyone ever told you that your love language is acts of service?”
In response, his brows shoot up.
Heart lurching, I stammer, “I-I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I don’t mean that you love me. I just mean that you like to do things for the people you care about. Not that you care about me. I’m just your assistant, so you wouldn’t, of course?—”
By the way he frowns, I’m not making it any better, so I snap my mouth shut and focus on the street in front of us.
The car pulls up then, thank god. Roman shakes his head at the driver, signaling that he shouldn’t get out, then opens the door for me and waits while I get in.
Once he’s sitting next to me and we’re headed back to the hotel, I force myself to look at him.
“I’m sorry, that was?—”
He shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. I knew what you meant, even if I don’t agree with you.”
I frown. “How can you not? Look at everything you’ve done for me. And I’m just your employee. I can only imagine what you’ve done for your family.”
He clenches his jaw and looks away. “I doubt my brothers would agree with you either.”
My stomach sinks at the sudden tension emanating from him. He watches out the window, silent, for the rest of the trip.
All the while, I bite my lip, chastising myself for putting my foot in my mouth. My chest pinches, making it hard to breathe. I want to apologize again, but I honestly don’t know what for. And I don’t want to make things worse.
But when we finally return to the hotel and step out of the car, instead of stalking straight to the elevator, he turns to me. His jaw is still tense, though I don’t think it’s with annoyance.
The way he slowly inspects my features, his expression softening, heats me to the core. “I’m going to have a whiskey at the bar, try to unwind before bed,” he says. “Care to join me?”
I should say no. I should thank him again and retire gracefully to my room. But despite the change in his mood in the car, or maybe because of it, I’m not ready to walk away from him yet. Tomorrow this interlude will be over, and I want a little more time with this version of Roman first.
Talking to him, being with him, is far more enjoyable than it should be.
I lift my face to his. “I’d like that.”
The intensity in his eyes has my breath faltering and anticipation igniting in my belly. Too soon, his expression shutters, but the memory of the way he looked at me, the way he let himself look at me for that brief moment, has my body humming.
He nods in the direction of the hotel’s bar. “After you.”