Chapter twenty-six
Luc
Sí, papi.
K nock, knock .
“Come in,” I say, glancing up. “You don’t need to knock, you know.” I lean back in my chair as the faint scent of vanilla fills the room. The air shifts as it always does when she steps in, subtle yet impossible to ignore. I nod toward the lunch I’ve set on the table for us, waiting for her usual little comment.
“Sí, papi. Voy a comer (Yes, daddy, I’m going to eat),” she mutters , grabbing the plate as she settles on the couch.
Oh, I caught that. I don’t have a daddy kink, but the way papi rolls off her tongue could change that real fast. It’s the kind of thought that makes my pulse tick faster than it should. Her laying across my lap, those sharp little retorts gone as I spank the attitude straight out of her. Are you going to be a good girl for papi?
The heat from the thought creeps into my chest. I close my eyes, locking it in the part of my mind I can’t let loose. Not yet.
Fuck, help me, God.
A smirk pulls at my lips despite myself as I push back my chair, standing and crossing the room to join her on the couch. She shoots me a suspicious glance, like she can sense the dangerous thought swirling in my head. I grab my sandwich, taking a bite to distract myself.
“So,” I begin, breaking the silence, “we have dinner with my parents this weekend. After that, we’ll need to plan the engagement party and pick a date for the wedding.”
Her fork pauses mid-air, her chewing slowing as she quickly swallows. “Dinner with your family this weekend?” she repeats.
“Don’t worry.” I lean back, studying her. “My parents are going to love you.”
Her brow furrows, and she shifts in her seat. “What if they don’t?”
“They will. I promise.”
She presses her lips together, holding back whatever argument is on the tip of her tongue.
“There’s one more thing,” I add, watching her closely. She’s not gonna like this. “I think you should move upstairs into my penthouse.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “ What? Why? ”
“We’re engaged now. It makes sense. What would people think if they found out we’re living separately?”
She scoffs, setting her plate down. “People don’t have to know. And in some cultures, couples don’t even spend time… together until they’re married.”
“Some cultures”—a small grin tugs at my lips—“but not ours. It would make more sense, Rylee. And for the record, I have three empty bedrooms for you to choose from. You won’t have to stay in mine.”
“Of course, I will not sleep in your room,” she says.
I let the silence stretch before leaning forward. “What are you afraid of, Mon Trésor? Being so close might make it harder for you to keep your hands off me?”
She stiffens, her gaze locking with mine for a split second before darting away. I watch her wrestle with herself, trying to stay composed, but her defense is cracking. “Fine, but I get to pick the room. And don’t expect anything to happen… you know.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“You know exactly what I mean,” she snaps.
I suppress a grin, taking another bite of my sandwich. We finish lunch, discussing a few more details about the engagement.
“Thanks for lunch,” she says before heading back to her office, leaving her faint vanilla scent lingering in the room.
The rest of the afternoon passes by in a blur between meetings and emails. I take a brief moment in between to work on a sketch I’ve been trying to finish. I’ve been designing a special dress for her. The lines flow easily today, but the design still isn’t quite right. I toss the pencil aside and check my watch—it’s already time to go.
Grabbing my coat, I head toward her office. She’s still typing, her fingers moving quickly over the keyboard. She doesn’t notice me as I lean casually against the doorframe, crossing one foot over the other. Her bottom lip is caught between her teeth, and her brows are creased together
“Ready to go?”
She glances up, startled for a second, then looks around, probably searching for her coat. “Yeah, let me just—”
“Here.” I hold it out to her, waiting.
Her eyes widen before she stands and slips her arms into the sleeves. I take my time adjusting it over her shoulders, brushing away her hair to let it fall over her chest. The soft strands glide between my fingers, and for a moment, I’m tempted to press a kiss to the curve of her neck. She has a small ballerina silhouette tattoo, and I’ve been tempted to kiss it.
“Thanks,” she says, almost shy, and I realize I’m still standing behind her.
I step back, giving her space, and gesture toward the door. “After you.”
She turns, walking ahead of me, her heels clicking softly against the tiled floor. I follow, my eyes trailing down her long legs before I force them back up.
The elevator is quieter than usual as we step in. I pull out my phone, scrolling mindlessly while sneaking glances at her from the corner of my eye. Her bag strap is pulled tight over her shoulder, and her fingers fidget with it, brushing the edge every few seconds.
Outside, Bertrand waits by the car, and we slide into the backseat. The silence between us seems to thicken. Her reflection in the window is distant, and her fingers pick at the stitching of her bag, like she needs something to do.
To be honest, suggesting she moved upstairs was a terrible idea. I seem to be making a lot of them lately. Torturing myself by having her so close, inviting a flame into my home and hoping not to get burned. The car slows as we pull up to the building, and I shove those thoughts aside.
Inside the building, I scan my key card to call the elevator and hold it open for her to step in first before joining her. She’s still quiet, her arms crossed over her chest, and her gaze fixed on the numbers above the door as the elevator goes up.
When the doors slide open, she steps out, and I follow her into her living room. She spins around to face me. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you grab your stuff,” I say, matching her stare.
“You want me to move in right now?” she snaps, her hands settling on her hips.
I narrow my eyes, refusing to back down.
She sighs, muttering, “Tan mandón, este hombre me va a volver loca (So bossy, this man is going to drive me crazy).”
I smirk, letting her frustration roll off me.
“I don’t have a lot of stuff,” she throws over her shoulder.
“Good.” I follow her. “That makes this easier.” I lean against the doorframe as she grabs an empty suitcase from her closet. She tosses it onto the bed, pulling her clothes from the hangers and adding them neatly inside. A small box comes next, where she carefully places her shoes, including a worn pair of ballet flats. My eyes linger on them, and an old memory rushes back like a tide.
I’ve seen her happy before. She was mon soleil, my sun, always smiling, always laughing as we wandered through Paris. But that night? That night, she was radiant—happier than I’ve ever seen her.
“I want to dance,” she said out of nowhere as we strolled through the park at night. We were the only ones there, the city quiet around us, maybe a little too tipsy to go home just yet.
“Dance?” I chuckled, sitting on one of the benches. “What kind of dance?”
“You’ll see. Just don’t laugh.” She pulled something from her bag—ballet flats.
She slipped them on, her fingers tying the ribbons. After placing her phone next to me on the bench and pressing play, she moved to an open spot under the streetlights. Standing tall, she rose onto her toes, her body moving with the music as if the cobblestone path was her stage.
And I couldn’t look away.
Her technique wasn’t perfect. Her turns were a little off, and her landings weren’t as clean, but none of that mattered. The passion in her movements, the pure love she poured into every spin and step, was breathtaking. She wasn’t just dancing; she was alive.
She was lost in the music, but I was lost in her.
When she finally stopped, she turned to me, breathless, smiling.
I stood, crossing the space between us without thinking, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “That was beautiful.” My eyes dropped to her lips, but before I could lean in, she stepped back, sitting on the bench to untie her shoes.
“I’m not that good.” She reached for the ribbon. “When I was little, Mrs. Layla used to teach me for free. She said I had talent, that if I kept practicing, I could get a scholarship…” She trailed off, and her hands stilled. “But it didn’t happen. Still, I love it. It makes me happy.” She folded her ballet shoes and placed them back in her bag.
“I’m ready.” Her voice breaks through my memories.
“Is that everything?” I ask, straightening from the doorframe and stepping toward the bed. I grab the suitcase and tuck the box under my arm. She doesn’t argue—not that I’d let her carry them, anyway.
She follows me silently to the elevator, and a few seconds later, we step out onto my floor. I carry her things into the kitchen, setting the box on the island.
My penthouse has two furnished levels. The lower level, where she’s been staying, is a separate, fully furnished, one-bedroom unit that offers plenty of privacy. Alain sometimes stays there as well.
The main level we’re in right now features an open-plan living area and kitchen, along with three bedrooms, including the main bedroom, which opens onto a private terrace that stretches along one side. Above, two mezzanine-style bedrooms overlook the living room.
“There are two bedrooms upstairs—you can pick one.”
Ruby barks at the sound of my voice, her tail wagging as she runs toward us. But instead of coming to me, she runs straight to Rylee. Little traitor.
Not that I blame her. I’d pick Rylee over me, too. She crouches to the floor, laughing as Ruby climbs into her lap and starts licking her face. Her laugh is warm, and for a second, I’m frozen, caught in the sound of it.
I swallow hard, my mind betraying me. I want to lick her face, too. Hell, I want to lick more than her face. Okay, man. You need to stop.
“I still can’t believe you remember me,” she says in French, running her fingers through Ruby’s fur.
Trust me, you’re difficult to forget.