Chapter 6 #2
She swallowed, blinking fast, hiding a shiver she couldn’t quite hide. “You’re lucky this is Paris, or I’d be kicking you out right now.”
I grinned, that damn confident, infuriating grin. “Well, if that’s the case, then you’re lucky I don’t care. Lucky for both of us, actually.”
The waiter approached, interrupting us with a polite murmur, but I barely noticed.
I was focused entirely on her—the subtle flare of her nostrils, the way her lips pressed together when she tried to maintain composure, the way her eyes betrayed curiosity and heat she refused to acknowledge.
The sound of the softness of her dress as it shifted around her legs each time she uncrossed and recrossed them.
Dinner was our current battlefield, and every bite, every sip, every smile, every glance was another round. I wasn’t leaving the table without my victory, however long it took.
Because Rachel wasn’t easy. She wasn’t meant to be easy. And that was exactly why I couldn’t—wouldn’t—walk away.
I felt the moment she started to brace.
It was subtle—the way her shoulders squared, the way her eyes sharpened like she expected another strike. She thought I was going to push again. She thought I was going to keep circling the same fire.
So I didn’t.
I took a sip of my wine, let the silence stretch just long enough to reset the room, and then I changed lanes completely.
“So,” I said easily, like we were old friends instead of sparring partners, “tell me about the internship.”
She blinked.
Once. Then again.
The pause was almost imperceptible, but I caught it. The shift always came right there—when someone thought they knew where you were headed and you took a hard left instead.
“My—what?” she asked.
I smiled, small and calm, like I had all night. “Paris Daily. René Dubois. The man who looks like he eats bricks for breakfast. What’s he got you doing?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re changing the subject.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe I’m curious.”
That threw her more than flirting ever could.
She leaned back slightly, studying me now, reassessing. “I assist. I observe. I carry things. I shut up.”
I nodded, encouraging. “And?”
“And I learn,” she added after a beat. “Constantly.”
“How?”
Her fingers tightened briefly around her fork. “By being uncomfortable.”
I hummed thoughtfully. “That tracks.” Discomfort would goad Rachel. It would push her.
She huffed a quiet laugh before she could stop herself. “Of course it does.”
I leaned forward just a touch—not predatory, not seductive. Interested. “What’s the hardest part so far?”
She hesitated, then answered honestly despite herself. “Not reacting. Not jumping in. Learning when to wait.”
I held her gaze. “And?”
“And trusting that waiting doesn’t mean losing out or disappearing.”
I let a beat pass. Then another.
“When do you start at the Sorbonne?” I asked gently.
Her brows lifted again, surprise flickering. “September.”
“What are you studying?”
“Visual culture. Theory. History.” She shrugged. “Seeing how you build meaning into the visual story.”
“Dangerous,” I teased lightly. “You already know so much, you’ll be able to take over the world if you learn more.”
She smiled despite herself. “You would say that.”
I tilted my head. “You like Paris?”
The question was simple. Clean. Open.
Her answer wasn’t.
“Yes,” she said slowly. “Too much.”
“What part?” I pressed, tone still easy, still rhythmic. One question leading cleanly into the next.
She looked past me for a second, gathering herself. “The way no one rushes to explain themselves. The way you’re allowed to be quiet without being asked what’s wrong. The way everything feels… earned.”
I watched her closely now.
“And?” I asked softly.
She met my eyes again. “The distance.”
There it was.
I didn’t comment. Didn’t challenge it. Just nodded once, like we were in court and I wanted the witness to keep talking. At the same time, the last thing I wanted to do was cross-examine her.
She exhaled. “What about you? Based on my experience, you aren’t someone who does well with distance.”
I smiled, slow and honest. “I don’t.”
She studied me for a long moment, then shook her head. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Getting me to talk when I wasn’t planning to.”
I lifted my glass in a small salute. “Occupational hazard.”
Her lips curved, reluctant but real. “You’re dangerous.”
I didn’t argue. It even amused me that she tossed my own words back at me.
The waiter cleared our plates. The candle burned lower. The night pressed closer around the table, Paris hummed around us and all I saw was her.
As Rachel leaned back in her chair, eyes thoughtful, guard slightly lowered, I knew two things with absolute certainty.
She thinks this is just dinner.
And she has no idea how close she is to the edge.
“You like that I’m dangerous,” I said, voice low, deliberate. “You like that I won’t let go. You like it even more when I push.”
She lifted her wine glass slowly, letting the liquid swirl, her eyes never leaving mine. I let her take her time, letting the tension hang, savoring it like the first sip of something aged and intoxicating.
Finally, she exhaled, soft but pointed. “Dominic…” Her voice trembled slightly, though she tried to hide it. “I came here to learn. To figure things out… to discover who I am.”
I leaned back just slightly, pretending to ponder her words, giving her space to reclaim some control. Then I let the corner of my mouth tilt into that knowing, infuriating grin.
“I’m not stopping you, am I?”
She blinked. A beat. The tiniest flicker of frustration mixed with something hotter—curiosity, desire, challenge. She almost smiled, almost—but she set her glass down with precision, trying to shift the game back in her favor.
I reached just enough across the table to make her aware of my presence without touching her.
I set my hand on the table, near enough for her to take but not pushing it on her.
Letting my voice drop, I said, “I’m here, Rachel.
I’m here to watch you grow… and maybe to see how much you can handle me while you do. ”
Her eyes narrowed, exasperation meeting heat, and I could practically feel the battle in her posture. Shoulders tensed, fingers lightly tapping on the glass, mind racing, pulse probably matching mine.
“Dominic,” she said again, sharper this time. “Focus. Dinner. Paris. Learning. Everything else… stay in your head.”
I laughed softly, quiet enough that it was almost conspiratorial. “Ah, but the fun part,” I said, voice dipping low, teasing, “is watching you try to keep me in there.”
She huffed a laugh, trying to shake it off. “You’re impossible.”
“You keep saying that,” I countered instantly, leaning back, letting my gaze roam over her like a man marking territory, “but you are the only woman who makes me want to be exactly that.”
Her lips pressed into a line, but the slightest twitch betrayed her, betraying that she was thinking about everything I’d just said—and not pushing me entirely away this time.
I let that silence stretch, comfortable, electric, and thought. She came here to learn. To grow. To understand herself.
And me? I’d come to challenge her. Test her. Tease her. Push her.
Because she was everything I didn’t know how to resist.
Not tonight. Not ever.
I let the pause stretch a beat longer than polite, watching her carefully. Then, with the faintest tilt of my head, I leaned in slightly, voice low and easy. “So… tell me about Paris. You’ve been running all around the city. What have you discovered on your own?”
Her eyes flicked up, caught a little off guard. She blinked, then smirked faintly. “Running all around? That’s funny, cause sometimes it does feel like I have to keep running. Though, I’m not sure it’s flattering.”
I let the words hang just long enough for her to squirm under the attention. “Flattery’s nothing compared to curiosity,” I said. “Come on, I want details. Streets, cafés, alleys, rooftops—show me Paris through your eyes.”
She hesitated, fingering the rim of her wine glass, then shrugged as if dismissing me. “I don’t know… I’ve just… wandered. Found little streets I never would have noticed otherwise, climbed a few rooftops for the view, and taken pictures. Lots of pictures.”
I smiled, pretending casual interest, though I was fully captivated. “Pictures, huh? Are we talking tourists’ snapshots or something more… revealing?”
She patted her camera bag and her eyes lit up with a spark of excitement. Apparently, in Paris, she didn’t go anywhere without it. It was… endearing.
“Revealing,” she admitted. “Trying to catch the city in ways that make it feel… alive. Hidden corners. Shadows that tell a story. The light hitting a window just right. People unaware they’re being watched. Moments that vanish if you blink.”
I nodded slowly, letting the words sink in, letting her see I was listening. “Sounds like you’re learning more than any classroom could teach you. You’ve got an eye, Rachel. A rare one. What about you? Do you ever stop long enough to… dream? About Paris, about life, about… yourself?”
Her fingers paused on the glass, and I caught the tiniest flicker of vulnerability before she masked it with her usual shield.
“Sometimes. I mean… I try to. I wander, I shoot, I think. I imagine what it would be like if I weren’t always racing, always learning.
If I could just… live. I want to capture it all, you know?
Every corner, every story. I want to know I saw it, really saw it. Not just through the lens.”
“Not just through the lens,” I echoed softly, savoring the way her words hung in the air. I leaned back, resting one elbow on the table, I didn’t want her to think I was judging. “I like that. That’s… honest. Brave, even.”
She looked at me then, and I caught that flicker of challenge again. “Brave? Is that what you think?”
I grinned, leaning forward slightly, eyes locked on hers. “I think you’re fascinating. I think you’re fearless in ways most people can’t even imagine. And yes… I think you’re brave enough to admit it. To admit who you are, even to yourself.”
Her lips parted slightly, caught between a laugh and a blush, and I knew I had her. Not fully—never fully—but enough. “You’re…” she started, shaking her head, words caught somewhere. “I don’t know what you are.”
“Exactly,” I said softly, letting my voice drop just a touch, letting her feel it. “Exactly what I want you to figure out. And maybe… just maybe, I’ll get to see the answer too.”
She laughed, small and sharp, trying to reclaim the edge. “You think this is all about you, don’t you?”
“Maybe,” I admitted with a sly smile. “Maybe a little. But mostly… it’s about you. Always about you.”
The waiter returned, quiet and efficient, offering the dessert menu with a practiced smile.
I caught the flicker of indecision in Rachel’s eyes as she glanced over the options, fighting to hold onto her composure.
“Actually,” I said smoothly, cutting in before she could voice any protests, “ask them to box it up. We’ll take it back to the hotel, Rachel.” I was going to say home, but I wouldn’t invite myself into her space.
Not yet.
Her brow lifted, a small, almost imperceptible pause, like she was weighing the audacity of my suggestion. “The hotel?” she asked, tone careful, amused, and skeptical all at once.
A good sign that she hadn’t just told me no.
“Yes,” I said, leaning just slightly across the table, voice low and playful, letting her feel the certainty in it. “You came to Paris to live… so let’s live.”
Her lips parted, a laugh threatening to escape, but it softened into something warmer, something that let me see her excitement just beneath the careful exterior. That tiny spark—her willingness to just… follow me—was everything.
She shook her head, mock-defiant, but the amusement in her eyes betrayed her. “You make it very hard to say no.”
“Good,” I said, grinning. “Because I like it when you don’t.”
Her gaze flicked down at the menu, then back to me, indecision and curiosity warring across her face. And in that moment, I got it. She’d take the box, she’d come with me, and we’d both get a little more of what we came to Paris for.
I raised my glass slightly, just enough to catch her attention. “Come on, Rachel. Let’s live a little.”
She finally smiled, that slow, rare yet utterly sinful smile that made me forget everything else in the room, and I knew I’d won the round. But the war? Oh, that was far from over.