Chapter 12
Claudette
Michael carried me to his bedroom, and I could barely think straight.
He set me down on the bed, his hands careful on my waist. Then his mouth found mine—soft, thorough, devastating.
His hands moved to the hem of my shirt. I lifted my arms, letting him pull it off. The cool air hit my skin before his palms were there, warm and solid, tracing up my sides. Slowly. Like he was learning me.
“You’re sure?” he asked, eyes dark and sharp with need.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
He pulled back just enough to look at me. His eyes were deep like the ocean at midnight, intense. Something vulnerable flickered across his face—gone as quickly as it appeared.
“I love you.” He whispered.
My heart stopped. Then it resumed faster than usual. I’d heard these words before. I was certain. “Say it again,” I whispered, needing to hear it like oxygen.
“I love you, Claudette.” His hand cupped my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone. “I love you so much it terrifies me.”
A knot formed in my chest. “I love you too.” I said. I’d always loved him, for as long as I could remember but this felt like the first time I was confessing it.
I didn’t get to dwell on that as his kiss turned desperate after that—less controlled, more honest. His hands were everywhere—in my hair, on my waist, skimming up my back.
I worked at his shirt buttons, fumbling because my hands were shaking.
He helped, impatient now, tugging it off like it offended him.
Then his chest was against mine and I forgot how to think.
He took his time after that—maddeningly so. Kissing down my neck, my collarbone, lower. His mouth on my skin made me gasp. Made me arch into him. His hands followed, learning the shape of me.
“Michael—”
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, steady and certain.
He did. Took me apart slowly until I was shaking and breathless and saying his name.
When he finally moved over me, settling between my legs, I wrapped myself around him and pulled him closer.
“Please,” I said.
He kissed me and I felt it everywhere—like something inside me recognizing something in him. Not just physical—though that was overwhelming—but something deeper. Like pieces clicking into place. Like finding something I didn’t know I’d been missing.
We moved together. He buried his face in my neck, breathing hard, saying my name between kisses. I held onto him and let myself get lost in the feeling of being completely connected to another person.
When I came apart, he was right there with me. Afterwards we lay tangled together, trying to remember how to breathe. I curled into him, my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow down.
“I’m glad I got to fall in love with you again,” I said quietly. “Even if I don’t remember you loving me the first time.”
His eyes held mine—glassy now, full of something I couldn’t name. Instead of answering, he kissed me. Slow and thorough. Then he made love to me again, and this time it was even better because there was no hesitation. No holding back. Just us and the feeling of being exactly where we belonged.
Afterwards I fell asleep in his arms, exhausted and happy.
That morning, I woke up wrapped around Michael.
My head was on his chest, one leg thrown over his, my arm across his waist. He was still asleep, breathing deep and even.
I took the opportunity to just look at him.
In sleep his face relaxed. Younger. The worry lines between his brows had smoothed out.
Last night played through my mind. We’d not done that before. I was certain I would have remembered sleeping with Michael Ashford. Now, I wanted to do it again, which seemed greedy but I didn’t care.
His eyes opened and found me watching.
“Morning,” he said, voice rough with sleep.
“Morning.”
His hand came up to tuck hair behind my ear. “How do you feel?”
“Like my husband wore me out.”
His mouth curved into that smile that made my heart skip. “Mission accomplished.”
“Cocky.”
“Confident.” He pulled me closer.
We lay there in the quiet morning light filtering through the curtains.
The next few days passed in easy domesticity.
We baked in the kitchen. Croissants and danish pastries that came out surprisingly well. Michael was meticulous about measurements, reading the recipe like it was a contract he was reviewing.
“You’re very serious about this,” I said, watching him measure flour down to the exact gram.
“Baking is chemistry. Chemistry requires precision.”
“It’s just croissants.”
“There’s no such thing as ‘just’ croissants.” He shot me a look. “These are going to be perfect.”
They were. Flaky and buttery and absolutely delicious. We ate them warm on the balcony, watching the city wake up below us.
“I could get used to this,” I said, licking butter off my fingers.
“To what?”
“This. You. Us. Morning croissants on the balcony.” I leaned against him. “It feels real. More real than anything else has in a long time.”
His arm came around me, pulling me close. He didn’t say anything. Just held me and watched the sunrise.
We read in the library, curled up on opposite ends of the couch with our feet touching in the middle. I’d found a collection of poetry. Michael was working through some business book that looked incredibly dense.
“How can you actually enjoy reading that?” I asked after watching him for ten minutes.
“It’s interesting.”
“It looks painful.”
“Supply chain optimization is fascinating.”
“You’re such a nerd.”
He set down the book and pulled me across the couch into his lap. “You’re very distracting, you know that?”
“Am I?”
“Very.” His mouth found my neck and the book was forgotten.
We made love in the library, in the kitchen, in the shower—everywhere the moment pulled us. Every time felt like discovering something new. Every time left me breathless and wanting more.
By the fourth day, my phone buzzed with a text from Pauline.
Pauline
Lunch tomorrow? I need details and you’ve been ignoring me.
I grinned and texted back.
Claudette
Meet at the mall at noon?
Pauline
Perfect. Wear something cute. We’re shopping after.
Michael looked up from his laptop. “Pauline?”
“Lunch tomorrow.”
“Alright.” He went back to work, but I noticed the tension creep into his shoulders. The way his jaw tightened slightly.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You sure?”
He looked at me then. “I just want you to have fun. See your friends.”
“But?”
“No buts. Go. Enjoy yourself.” He reached for my hand. I studied him for a moment, why did he looked so worried? Was he anxious about the fact that I was going out without him? But why?
I met Pauline at the mall the next day, we wandered through stores with no real purpose, trying on ridiculous outfits and making each other laugh. She dragged me into a lingerie shop and held up something that was mostly straps and optimism.
“For your husband,” she said with a wicked grin.
“That’s not lingerie. That’s geometry homework.”
“Exactly. Make him figure it out.”
I bought it anyway, along with two other things that were equally impractical. Pauline looked entirely too pleased with herself.
Over lunch at a café tucked away from the main corridor, she leaned forward with her elbows on the table. “Okay. Spill. The carnival? The ferris wheel? What happened after?”
My face went hot immediately.
“Oh my god, look at you!” She grinned. “That good?”
“I’m not discussing—”
“On a scale of one to ten, how dead are you.”
“Pauly—”
“Come on. I need to live vicariously through you. My dating life is a disaster and yours is apparently amazing.”
“Fine. Eleven.”
She squealed loud enough that people at the next table turned to look. “I knew it! Michael Ashford has that energy, you know? That quiet intensity thing—”
“Can we please talk about literally anything else?”
“Fine, fine.” She took a bite of her salad, still grinning. “Though I’m filing this away for future teasing.”
I took a sip of my water. “Speaking of which… why are you back in Vegas?”
“Oh. Yeah.” She looked down at her plate. “I’m actually working on something.”
“Working on what?”
She hesitated, then leaned in slightly. “You know Simon Tucker?”
“Should I?”
“Billionaire tech guy. Made his fortune in artificial intelligence or something equally boring. Very private. Never does interviews.” Her eyes lit up the way they always did when she was onto something good. “His wife died.”
“That’s awful.”
“It gets worse.” She lowered her voice. “Rumor is she was having an affair. And the kid—Tucker’s daughter—might not even be his.”
“Oh my god.”
“Right? And he’s here. In Vegas. I have it on good authority he’s been holed up at the Bellagio for the past week meeting with lawyers.
Probably dealing with the paternity stuff.
” She took another bite of her salad. “If I can get him to talk—even just a few quotes—it would be huge. Nobody’s been able to get near him. ”
“So you’re stalking a grieving billionaire?”
“I prefer ‘pursuing a story with dedication.’” She grinned. “But yeah, basically. My editor’s been on me about getting something juicy and this is about as juicy as it gets. Dead wife, secret affair, disputed paternity? That’s front-page material.”
“You’re terrible.”
“I’m a journalist. Don’t blame me.”
I shook my head, but I was smiling. This was classic Pauline. When she was onto a story, nothing could stop her. “So that’s why you’re still here. And here I was thinking you came to see your dearest friend.”
“It’s both. I also wanted to make sure you were settling in okay.” She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “You’re my best friend. The story’s important, but so are you.”
“That’s very sweet. In a slightly mercenary way.”
“I contain multitudes.”
We talked for a few more minutes about her attempts to track Tucker down. How his security team kept shutting her out. How she’d almost gotten into the same restaurant as him yesterday but had been turned away at the door.