Chapter 31
Chapter
Thirty-One
JO
We step into the hotel lobby, the familiar scent of polish, leather, and a faint hint of garlic from the kitchens greeting us like an old friend.
The quiet hum of the elevators, the gentle clink of luggage carts, even the polite nods of the staff, it all feels normal, ordinary, after a day of magic.
Except, of course, nothing about this moment is ordinary. Not with Axel next to me.
“Do you think we can make it back in time for cocktails before dinner?” I ask, tugging lightly on Axel’s sleeve as we head towards the elevators.
He looks at me with that slow, knowing smile of his that makes me feel like he’s already plotted a perfect evening. “Cocktails weren’t part of the plan,” he murmurs, his voice low enough to make my pulse quicken. “But if it is cocktails my baby wants, then cocktails she’ll have.”
I laugh, shaking my head, but the warmth creeps up my face.
Up in our room, I step into the bathroom and freshen up.
When I come out, Axel goes in. While I am alone, I peel off my clothes and shrug into something lighter, something that feels Parisian – a light pink sundress of mid-thigh length and thin spaghetti straps.
It feels sweet yet subtly daring. I add my nude ballet pumps and quickly sit down to brush my hair.
Axel emerges from the bathroom, a towel wrapped low around his waist, his hair damp and falling slightly over his forehead.
I watch him through the mirror, and I swallow hard. A grin tugs at my lips.
“What?” he asks when he feels my eyes on him.
“Nothing,” I say. “Just admiring the view.”
“Charming,” he says immediately, but he is flashing that grin that makes my knees feel weak.
We take the stairs down to the hotel bar.
Inside, the bar is dark with an almost secretive air about it.
It has low, intimate lighting, flickering electric candles on every table, and behind the bar, shelves of bottles of all colors stretch all the way up to the ceiling.
The air smells faintly of citrus and alcohol.
A jazz track hums in the background, a female vocalist singing in a sultry voice, smooth and intoxicating, curling around us like velvet.
The bartender is dressed sharply; white shirt complete with black bow tie, and black trousers. He moves like he is a dancer, mixing drinks with precision and flair.
Axel slides the door closed behind us and leans closer to me.
“Is the bar to your liking, Mademoiselle?” he murmurs, and I feel the heat of his chest brushing my back.
I glance around, taking it all in, my eyes wide. “This place is perfect,” I whisper.
“Good. Now let’s see if they can make a mean Martini.”
We take our seats at the bar, and the bartender approaches, offering us cocktail menus with a flourish.
“What are we feeling tonight?” Axel asks, his eyes twinkling, glancing at me and then at his Drinks menu.
I scan the extensive list, quite awed by the descriptions of each drink - hints of elderflower, smoked citrus, exotic spices, the list goes on.
“Something different.”
He nods. “How did I know you were going to say that?”
When the bartender returns, Axel orders a smoked rosemary martini, and I choose a hibiscus-infused gin cocktail, something I imagine will taste tart and floral.
I watch as the bartender makes our drinks.
The fragrance of fresh rosemary curls through the air as the bartender mixes Axel’s martini with great flair.
When my drink is prepared, he pours both concoctions into two glasses.
Axel’s is clear with the tiniest tinge of green.
Mine is bright orange, catching the light like a jewel.
I take a sip of my drink. Nice. It’s what I thought it would be and more – tart yet sweet, and it’s so unexpectedly moreish. I could have another dozen of these. Axel watches me, a knowing grin playing at his lips.
“So? Worth the adventure?”
“It’s absolutely divine,” I murmur as my eyes meet his across the table. “It’s the kind of thing that makes you forget everything else exists.”
He chuckles. “Exactly. That’s the idea.”
“How’s yours?” I ask.
“Not bad at all,” he says, and we momentarily switch glasses and try each other’s drinks.
The rosemary martini tastes like a standard martini at first, but once I swallow, I get a hint of the rosemary, just enough to tantalize my taste buds but not enough to overpower the drink’s main flavors.
“Guilty pleasure. Go,” Axel says, catching me off guard.
Right now, the answer to that would be him, but I can’t say that. I glance down at my drink, gathering my thoughts. “Fine. I have a weakness for terrible romance novels.”
“Terrible how?”
“Predictable. Overly dramatic. The kind where the brooding billionaire falls in love with the shy but secretly brilliant heroine.”
He coughs lightly behind his glass. “It sounds kind of unrealistic.”
“Utterly,” I agree solemnly. “And yet I devour them.”
He leans back, amused. “Let me guess. He has a tragic past.”
“Obviously.”
“Commitment issues.”
I nod sagely. “Deep ones.”
“An inconvenient amount of money.”
“An obscene amount.”
He shakes his head, but I can see the amusement in his eyes. “And you, an intelligent modern woman, an art conservator with impeccable taste, indulge in these unrealistic fantasies?”
“I do. Don’t knock what you haven’t tried,” I say primly.
He smiles at that, really smiles. Not the controlled, strategic version. Something warmer. “I like that about you.”
“What? My bad taste in fiction?”
“No, the contradictions within you. You’re never just one thing. You can talk about Renaissance brush techniques for an hour, then argue passionately about why some fictional obnoxious billionaire deserves happiness with his hapless secretary.”
“It’s important,” I protest. “He’s misunderstood.”
“Of course he is.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re judging me.”
“Actually, I’m fascinated by you.”
There’s a truth in his words that goes deeper than my guilty pleasure confession.
“And what about you?” I ask. “What’s your guilty pleasure, Mr. High Standards?”
He considers it, swirling his drink. “Trashy action films.”
I stare. “No.”
“Yes.”
“With explosions?”
“Afraid so,” he confesses.
“Gratuitous car chases?”
“The more unnecessary, the better.”
“The hero who avoids machine gun fire and takes out the bad guy by kicking the shit out of him?”
“That’s the best bit.”
“Oh, absolutely not.”
He laughs, the sound low and easy. “You think I only watch documentaries about global markets?”
“I assumed you fell asleep reading The Economist.”
“I do that too.”
“Of course you do.”
He leans in slightly.
“But sometimes I just want two hours of implausible heroics and a villain with a questionable accent.”
I study him as if reassessing everything. “This changes things.”
“In a good way?”
“In a deeply confusing way.”
He grins. “Good.”
The jazz swells for a moment, then softens again. I find myself tracing the condensation on my glass with my fingers, watching the way his gaze follows the movement of them.
“Tell me somewhere you’ve never been,” he says quietly. “But want to go.”
“Kyoto,” I answer without having to think about it. “In the spring. When the cherry blossoms are out. I want to see the temples at dawn before the crowds arrive.”
He nods slowly. “I can picture you there.”
“Can you?”
“Yes. You would pretend you weren’t emotional about it. But you would be.”
“Maybe.”
“Where else?”
“Iceland,” I say. “To see the Northern Lights. And I know you said somewhere I’ve never been, but I really want to go to Florence again. I want to savor it properly this time. I rushed it when I visited when I was studying.”
He watches me as if committing my every word to memory.
“And you?” I ask, needing to balance the way he’s looking at me with something lighter. “Where do you dream about?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Patagonia,” he says finally. “Somewhere remote. No reception. Just mountains and silence.”
I smile faintly. “No reception at all?”
He shrugs. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t need to control everything all the time.”
I lift a brow.
He huffs a laugh. “All right. I’m trying here.”
“You don’t have to,” I say, touching his hand with mine.
The contact stills him. The air seems to thicken. “I know,” he says, his voice softer now. “But I want to.”
Because of me. He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to.
I hear the words left unsaid as clearly as the ones he did say.
I start to pull my hand back slowly, but his fingers catch mine before I can retreat completely.
He turns my hand over so that my palm is upwards, tracing the faint lines there as if they’re a map.
I meet his gaze.
“I’m just happy getting to know the you that lives underneath the public persona.”
“Why?”
Because you listen. Because you look at me like I have something interesting to say. Because you don’t flinch from my sharp edges. That’s what I think, but it’s not what I say.
“Because you let me challenge you,” I say instead. It’s still the truth, just a different one.
A flicker of something, respect, maybe, crosses his face. “I don’t want to spend time with someone who agrees with me all of the time.”
“Good. You’d be bored within a week.”
“Within a day.”
I smile. “I’d stage a protest.”
“I’d invest in it.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re something else.”
“And yet,” he murmurs.
And yet …
The music shifts into something slower. Around us, conversations blur.
Glasses clink. The world continues, but I’m filled with the quiet realization that this thing between us isn’t accidental.
That whatever began between us didn’t just spark and die.
It has settled. It has rooted. He lifts my hand to his lips, brushing a kiss against my knuckles, his eyes never leaving mine.
“And now it’s time for me to feed you. My cock is getting impatient,” he says softly.
“Do you always know how to make someone feel a little off balance?” I ask, swirling the last mouthful of my hibiscus cocktail around the glass.
“Are you off balance, Jo?”
I nod slowly. “Yup. I am.”