11. Lucia
Chapter 11
Lucia
I’m standing before the Winged Victory of Samothrace, and everything feels wrong; the magnificent marble statue has failed to inspire me as I expected.
Even here at The Louvre—it should feel magical—it’s the Louvre, for god’s sake. Yet all I can think about are the phone calls I’ve ignored from Amelia these past few days.
But I’m not ready to be screamed at again for fucking her father.
I know she wants me to explain myself. She said as much in a text message. Asking how long it had been going on for. But I’m not ready to talk to anyone about Ronan, especially his daughter.
My back stiffens at the thought.
I did what she asked. I stepped aside for her. As I do for everyone. My mother. Especially my father.
And now I’ve lost the one person who looked at me like he really wanted me.
Of course, now I know he didn’t. He probably wanted the time we agreed to, but not any longer, and I should be thankful that it ended so quickly. Imagine how my heart would feel after another two weeks if it’s feeling like it is now.
I shove my backpack on my opposite shoulder as I turn a corner.
My eyes drift to a nearby Roman sculpture, and for a moment, all I see is Ronan’s face carved from stone.
I blink, and it’s gone.
God, I want him.
I should hate him.
I can’t. He was always there, and he gave me this impossible dream. I felt looked after. And when his mouth was on my neck, before he even kissed me, I knew he wanted more.
Not enough, though.
The universe has a sick sense of humor.
The crowds of tourists press in around me, their enthusiastic chatter only amplifying my loneliness. This grand adventure around Europe was supposed to be liberating. Yet, I feel more lost than ever.
“I need coffee,” I mutter to myself. My feet are already going to the exit.
Outside, the spring air is crisp as I make my way back toward the Seine and the same coffee shop where I ate breakfast.
I settle at a café table, order a coffee and spread out my well-worn map, searching for the closest tourist destination to get to from here.
I thank the waiter when he brings me a hot coffee, and then I get back to tracing possible routes with my finger, trying to convince myself that the next museum—the next city, or perhaps the next country—will somehow fill this hollow feeling in my chest.
“The Musée d’Orsay is overrated.” A deep voice comes from my left and my heart stops.
I glance through my lashes at the voice.
And there he is–Ronan Bridge. And he looks like he stepped out of a magazine in his tailored charcoal coat, matching colored pants and a crisp white shirt with no tie and the top two buttons undone.
God, he looks so good.
My mouth falls open.
“May I join you?”
I swallow and nod lightly, unable to speak for a while as I watch him sit across from me like this is perfectly normal. And not like we are in Paris.
“How did you find out I was here?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
“I checked the credit card records. Found your hotel. The coffee shops and restaurants you frequent. And hoped I’d find you at one of them before I went to the hotel later.” His eyes drop to my map. “Where are you going next?”
“Why are you here, Ronan?” I ask a question of my own.
He’s quiet for a long moment, studying me with those intense gray eyes. “Because I’ve been a fool. I told myself I wasn’t good enough for you. Too old. Too complicated.” His mouth twists. “Your best friend’s father, and a friend of your parents, of all things.”
My breath catches. “Did you come here behind Amelia’s back?”
“She knows I’m here. She told me to come and find you.”
“She did.” I gasp. “She tried to call me,” I whisper, and swallow.
“I want you, Lucia.” His voice is deep, gravelly, and I believe it’s full of honesty.
But…
“It won’t work,” I say, even though my resolve is weakening. “There’s too much—”
“Why not? Give me one reason that isn’t about what other people might think.”
“You were the one who was worried about other people. Not me. And I can’t let you railroad my life, Ronan. I gave you my trust, and you broke it.”
“And now you have all the power,” he breathes. “But Lucia, honestly, you always did. You know that.”
I stare at him, my heart pounding. “But you tried to fight it?”
He nods. “I admit I tried to get you out of my system. And I knew the moment I saw you in my office that day,” he continues, “that if I kissed you, I’d never be able to stop. I knew I’d fall in love with you. And I was terrified because that’s exactly what happened, and I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it.”
I glance at a boat as it powers past us and at the tourists onboard who snap photos of Notre-Dame in the distance.
I turn back to Ronan. For a man who traveled across the world to find me, he looks surprisingly uncertain as he waits for my response.
“You’re in love with me?” My words are barely audible over the engines.
“I tried to fight it. I never thought I was good enough for you—” He glances skyward and sighs. “Still don’t. But—”
Maybe that’s what finally does it. Seeing this powerful man who’s always so sure of himself looking at me like I’m in charge.
“You’re good enough.”
“Good enough to love? Enough to be mine?”
I close my eyes and whisper, “Yes.”
Ronan rushes to me, holds me by the waist, and sweeps me into his arms. Blindly, I wrap my legs around him as his mouth claims mine.
My heart thunders as he lowers us both onto the café chair, and I settle my thighs on either side of his. Behind us, the Seine flows lazily past, and somewhere a street musician plays an accordion, the music drifting through the spring air like a scene from a movie I never thought I’d star in.
“Kiss me, Mr. Bridge.”
He smiles as his mouth captures mine again. Warm and demanding lips pressing against mine, the bittersweet hint of an espresso on his tongue.
When we pull away, he presses his forehead to mine, and I breathe him in. Not just his expensive cologne, but also the scent that is purely him. “Live with me.”
My eyes widen, and I search his face for any hint of doubt. “Is that a good idea?”
“It’s a brilliant idea.” His thumb brushes across my cheek, catching a tear I didn’t even know had fallen. “I want you with me all the time. And it gives you the freedom to do what you love.”
I tilt my head, confused by his words.
“Art. Paint. Sculpt. Do whatever your heart desires.”
I bite my lower lip, remembering the sketchbooks hidden under my bed, the dreams I pushed aside for a “sensible” career. But… “I like my job. Some clients, not so much.”
He laughs. It’s so deep that the sound vibrates through his chest where my hands rest. Then he stops laughing and stares at me. The late morning sun sparkles in his gray eyes, turning them almost silver. But it’s the way he’s looking at me that makes my breath catch. “You’re more precious than any artwork in the Louvre, you know that?”
My heart thunders against my ribcage, but I want more. I want to hear everything. Including the things he hides.
My fingers trace idle patterns on his chest, feeling his heartbeat through his expensive shirt. “What do you want, Ronan?” It’s the question I’ve wanted the answer to since we discussed what I wanted from life. “You never told me.”
He meets my gaze, and the intensity there makes me shiver. “I’d like a baby. I got it so wrong with my other three kids. I wish I’d been around more for all of them.”
The confession hits me hard. “That’s why you pay for everything?” My voice softens as understanding dawns. “To make up for not being there when they were younger?”
He nods, and I see the pain flash across his face. “It’s the biggest regret of my life.”
“So you’re telling me to warn me?” A breeze off the river ruffles my hair, and he tucks the strand behind my ear with such tenderness it makes my heart ache.
“No, I’m telling you because as soon as you’re ready, I am.” He cups my face in his hands, they warm my cool skin. “I don’t want to wait with you. I want it all. And I want to do it right this time. With you.”
I lean into his touch, feeling tears well up in my eyes. The morning bustle of Paris continues around us—waiters calling out orders, tourists chatting—but at this moment, it’s just us. “You really mean that?”
“Every word.” His thumb brushes away another tear. “I love you, Lucia Simmons. Let me prove it to you every day.”
The words make my heart flip, and for the first time in too many years, I don’t feel alone.
“I love you too, Mr. Bridge.”
I can’t believe this is happening. One minute I’m exploring the Louvre, feeling lost and alone, and the next Ronan Bridge is declaring his love for me in a charming Parisian café.
My heart is still racing from his passionate kiss.
Now, we’re back in my hotel room, and he’s pressed against me, his strong hands gripping my hips as he bends me over the table. My wrists are tied to the legs, leaving me at his mercy. Just as he likes it.
Not that I’m complaining. Ronan’s tongue is doing sinful things between my legs, and I can’t hold back a groan of pure bliss. But just as he slides his finger inside me, my phone rings.
“Miss Simmons’s phone. How may I help you?” Ronan answers, his voice low and seductive. He doesn’t stop his ministrations, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out.
“I’m sorry, she’s tied up at the moment,” he says, and I can’t help but giggle. The sound is quickly followed by a sharp sting as he slaps my ass cheek.
“I’ll just put you on loud speaker because I’m busy myself.”
“Who is this?” Jack, my ex-boyfriend, demands on the other end of the line.
Ronan makes sure he can hear everything - the slurping sounds, my muffled whimpers.
“This is the man who is currently fucking his future wife. A man who won’t fuck up and lose her again, Jack.”
“Put Lucia on. She wouldn’t—”
“Goodbye, Jack.” Ronan ends the call and covers my body with his, kissing a trail up my neck.
“Possessive much?” I tease, my voice breathy.
He chuckles, the vibration of it sending shivers down my spine. “You have no idea, sweetheart.” Ronan nips at my earlobe. “I want everyone to know I’m never letting you go. I want everyone to know you’re mine.”
“Everyone?”
“You’re mine…everyone.”