Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Laurel
Leonid spends most of the seven-hour flight glued to his iPad, working nonstop.
I split my time between reading on my e-reader, sampling every snack the flight attendant offers, and curling up for a nap in the sleeping space tucked behind the main cabin.
It’s ridiculously comfortable. I had no idea this level of luxury even existed in the air.
By the time the pilot announces our descent, I’m already awake.
I duck into the bathroom, splash cool water over my face, and run the small comb from my purse through my hair, fixing the worst of the sleep tangles. I smooth it back into place and swipe on a fresh layer of lip gloss before heading back.
Leonid is still working, sleeves now rolled to his elbows, revealing thick forearms corded with muscle and covered in dark, intricate tattoos that disappear under the fabric. His hair is mussed, as though he’s been dragging his fingers through it. Does this man ever get tired?
He looks up from his tablet as I approach, his gaze locking onto mine, and suddenly I’m painfully aware of every step I take back to my seat. His expression is unreadable, and it makes me irrationally curious about what’s going on behind those eyes.
I sit down and fasten my seatbelt.
“You good?” he asks.
I nod, realizing I’ve somehow lost the ability to form words under his steady stare.
He studies me another beat, then returns to his tablet, but not before I catch the faint curve at the corner of his mouth.
I stare straight ahead, cheeks burning. God. If I’m going to keep this professional for the next two days, I need him to stop looking at me like he wants to devour me.
By the time we touch down, a black SUV is already waiting near the runway. The driver, a middle-aged man, stands beside it, dressed in a black tailored suit, a brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes.
He approaches us immediately, offering me a polite smile.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” he says smoothly.
I blink, caught off guard. “Uh—bonjour,” I manage, hoping my accent isn’t completely tragic.
He turns to Leonid and launches into rapid French.
I don’t understand a single word, but God, the way Leonid answers, low, fluid, that gravelly timbre rolling through the syllables like velvet over stone, makes my stomach tighten in a way I have no business feeling.
French on him is lethal. I bite the inside of my cheek and silently order myself to stop.
The driver smiles politely at me and opens the rear door with a gloved hand. “Après vous, mademoiselle.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, sliding inside. The leather is butter-soft, still warm from the heater. Leonid follows, settling beside me, and suddenly the spacious backseat feels smaller.
Our luggage is already in the trunk. The driver closes the door, slips behind the wheel, and we glide away from the airfield.
I can’t believe I’m in Paris. I look out the window, taking it all in: cobblestone streets gleam faintly from last night’s rain.
The city is just waking, joggers in bright jackets, café owners rolling up metal shutters, a woman in a scarf setting out baskets of baguettes and croissants on a sidewalk table.
No horns blaring. No one is screaming at a cab driver.
No frantic tide of commuters shoving toward the subway.
Just… quiet. An air of peace that feels almost foreign after New York.
I can’t stop staring. Two weeks ago, if anyone had told me I’d be spending Valentine’s weekend in Paris, I’d have laughed them out of the room. I press my face closer to the window like an overexcited tourist.
I turn my head and find Leonid watching me, elbow braced on the door, chin resting on his knuckles. His expression is unreadable, but the intensity in those blue eyes makes my skin prickle.
“I’ve never been to Paris before,” I blurt, cheeks warming. “So… don’t be surprised if I spend the whole time gawking.”
A slow smirk curves his mouth. “I’m glad your first time is with me.”
My mouth opens, but before I can get any word out, the driver says something in French from the front seat. Leonid answers without breaking eye contact with me. “We’ve arrived,” he translates.
Only then do I realize the car has stopped in front of a large hotel building. Leonid gets out of the car first and then offers me his hand.
My hand looks ridiculously small against his. His palm is warm and slightly calloused in a way that doesn’t quite match the image of a man who spends most of his time behind a screen.
He closes his hand around mine, and a zap of electricity shoots up my arm. My knees threaten to buckle, but somehow I manage to stand without wobbling.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He doesn’t let go right away. His gaze stays on my face. “Are you alright?”
“Hmm,” I murmur, nodding.
He brings his hand to the small of my back, and we both walk into the hotel. Two doormen in crisp uniforms step forward, one already reaching for our bags, the other holding the heavy glass door open with a murmured “Bonjour, Monsieur, Mademoiselle.”
Inside, the lobby is magnificent: soaring ceilings painted with soft frescoes, crystal chandeliers, marble floors veined in gold and cream, enormous vases of white lilies and roses perfuming the air. It feels like stepping into a different century, one where everything is slower, more beautiful.
Leonid’s hand is still on my back. He glances down at me. “Welcome to Paris, Laurel.”
“Thank you,” I respond, grinning from ear to ear.
After we collect our key cards from the front desk, we head toward the elevator.
I’m oddly grateful we aren’t alone inside it. An elderly couple stands near the control panel, quietly murmuring to each other in French, and a middle-aged man in a tailored suit scrolls through his phone near the corner.
Leonid positions himself behind me as the doors slide shut. He isn’t brushing against me, but he is close enough that I’m hyperaware of his presence. The faint heat of his body, the clean, masculine scent of his cologne lingering in the narrow space. Every tiny shift of air feels amplified.
When the doors finally open on our floor, I release a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. He leads the way to our suite.
As we walk into our suite, my mouth falls open. “Oh.”
Spectacular doesn’t even begin to cover it. The suite is massive, easily two times the size of my apartment back home. A spacious living area opens first, anchored by a plush sectional sofa, a glass coffee table, and soft neutral rugs that look like they cost more than my monthly rent.
Floor-to-ceiling windows flood the room with pale morning light, revealing the Paris skyline beyond. There’s a small dining nook and artwork lining the walls.
Our bags arrive almost immediately. Leonid tips the bellboy, who thanks us and disappears down the hall.
Leonid gestures down the corridor. “That room is yours,” he says, pointing to the door at the far end. Then he motions to the opposite door. “That one is mine.”
“Thanks. I need to unpack and freshen up.”
His phone starts to ring, and he gives me a nod before walking away to answer it.
I drag my suitcase toward my room and push the door open.
My jaw actually drops. The bedroom is stunning. A king-sized bed dressed in crisp white linens sits centered beneath a padded headboard. Soft lamps glow warmly against cream-colored walls. A sitting chair rests near the window, and when I walk closer, my breath catches all over again.
The Eiffel Tower rises in the distance, unmistakable and luminous against the morning sky.
“No way,” I whisper. My room has a view of the Eiffel Tower! I drop my bags and immediately pull out my phone, FaceTiming Tasha.
It’s past midnight in New York, but she answers almost instantly, hair messy, already curled under her blankets.
“Hello from Paris,” I announce.
She squeals so loudly I have to pull the phone slightly away from my ear. “Shut up! You’re really there?!”
“Look at this,” I laugh, flipping the camera toward the window so she can see the Eiffel Tower.
She shrieks again. “LAUREL. I HATE YOU. That’s insane.”
I spin slowly, showing her the room, then the massive bathroom with its marble counters and glass shower.
“This place is ridiculous,” she says, eyes wide on the screen.
“I know,” I agree. “I feel like I accidentally wandered into a movie set.”
“Girl, I can’t believe you’re in Paris,” she squeals.
“Me too!”
Her expression shifts into a wicked grin. “So… have you joined the mile-high club yet?”
I roll my eyes. “Tasha.”
She laughs. “Yeah, yeah. Professional trip. I know. But you’re missing out. I heard the orgasms hit different in the air.”
“Sure,” I deadpan.
She wiggles her brows. “Where’s Mr. Nine-inches?”
“In his room,” I say.
“Next door?”
I shake my head. “We are in the same suite.”
She gasps dramatically. “Okay, that man absolutely does not want anything about this to stay professional.”
Before I can respond, there’s a knock at my door.
“Hold that thought,” I tell her. “I’ll call you later.”
I end the call and walk to the door, opening it to find Leonid standing there.
“I ordered breakfast,” he says. “I wasn’t sure what you’d prefer, so I took the liberty of ordering a bit of everything.”
“That’s really kind of you,” I say. “Thank you.”
“I have a meeting this morning,” he continues. “I’ll be away most of the day. But Louis can take you around later if you’d like.”
I blink. “Louis?”
“Yeah, the driver.”
“Oh, okay. That sounds great,” I say, genuinely grateful.
He lingers for a brief second, as if considering something else, his gaze resting on my lips, then he steps back. “Have a nice day, Laurel.”
And he walks away, leaving the door softly closing between us. I let out a harsh breath and decide to take a long, hot shower.
By the time I’m done, I feel a little more relaxed. I slip into loose shorts and an oversized tee, twist my damp hair into a messy knot, and step back into the suite. Leonid is already gone, so I don’t have to worry about looks.
The trolley of food waits in the living room exactly where he said it would.
I wheel it closer to the couch and stare at the spread.
Flaky croissants, pain au chocolat dusted lightly with sugar, a basket of crusty baguette slices with butter and fruit preserves, creamy yogurt topped with berries, omelets, fresh orange juice, and a small pot of strong coffee.
I grab a croissant first, take a bite, and reach for the TV remote to flip it on. It lands on a French channel playing something I absolutely do not understand, but it becomes background noise as I eat my way through half the trolley.
By the time I finally lean back into the couch cushions, I’m full to the point of mild regret and yet filled with delicious contentment.
My eyelids feel heavy. A nap would be nice. But I didn’t fly seven hours across the Atlantic to sleep my day away.
“I’m in Paris,” I mutter aloud, like the reminder alone should inject energy directly into my bloodstream.
I push myself up and head back to my room to change. I slip into a simple flare dress that stops just at my knees and flat sandals. Comfortable enough to walk in, cute enough to feel pretty. I smooth my hair, add a swipe of lip gloss, and grab my purse.
I already called the lobby earlier. They told me Louis would be waiting downstairs.
When I step outside the hotel, Louis stands by the curb beside the black SUV that brought us earlier, hat tipped slightly forward.
“Good morning, Miss Harper,” he says in smooth English, and I almost laugh in relief.
“Good morning,” I reply, smiling back. “Thank you for taking me around.”
“My pleasure,” he says, opening the door for me.
As we drive through Paris, I take it all in, smiling. Louis stops whenever I ask: a small artisan market, a perfume shop, a bookstore tucked into a quiet street. I pick up little souvenirs, postcards, and a hat I absolutely don’t need but love anyway.
When I reach for my wallet, Louis gently shakes his head.
“Mr. Volkov asked me to use his card for anything you buy,” he says calmly, already tapping to pay.
I blink at him. “He… he did?”
“Yes, miss.”
The first time surprises me. The second time confuses me. By the third, my mind is officially spiraling.
Why would Leonid do that? It’s thoughtful, but completely unnecessary. I don’t know whether to feel grateful or unsettled by his generosity. Would he expect me to repay him in some way?
As we drive back to the hotel, I stare out the window again as the city glides past, trying not to overthink it, and failing miserably.
Later that evening, I’m in my room sending Tasha pictures of the things I got, when a knock sounds at the door.
I know it’s Leonid, but my heart jumps anyway. I open it to find him standing there.
“You’re back,” I say, the words stupidly obvious.
He smiles faintly. “Just finished with my meetings.”
There’s a brief pause, like he’s weighing something. Then, “I was thinking of getting dinner. Would you like to join me?”
My answer comes too fast. “Yeah. Just—give me a few minutes to change.”
“I’ll freshen up as well,” he says. “Thirty minutes?”
“Perfect.”
I close the door and immediately lean my forehead against it for half a second.
Okay. Calm down. It’s just dinner. In Paris. With a devastating billionaire who once sexted you into oblivion.
Totally normal.
I cross to my suitcase and pull out a green cowl-neck dress, one of the ones Tasha forced me to buy after insisting it would make my eyes pop.
She wasn’t wrong. The fabric skims my curves, soft and fluid, hugging in all the right places without trying too hard. I do my makeup a little more carefully than usual, curl my hair so it falls in loose waves over my shoulders.
When I look at my reflection, I actually pause. I like what I see. The dress brings out the green in my eyes, warms my skin, and makes me feel feminine and confident. Maybe Tasha deserves a thank-you text later.
I slip into strappy heels, grab my clutch, and head into the living room. Leonid is already there.
He’s changed too, white shirt open at the collar, black slacks, jacket gone.
His hair is still slightly damp from the shower, darker at the edges, giving him a relaxed softness that wasn’t there earlier.
He looks less like a ruthless businessman and more like a man who’s looking to enjoy the evening.
His gaze sweeps over me, so slow and deliberate that heat curls low in my belly. “You ready?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I manage.
As we step toward the door, his hand settles at the small of my back, guiding me forward.
The contact is light, but my body absolutely begs to differ. Every nerve ending sparks like someone flipped a switch. And, traitor that it is, my vagina does a full celebratory dance.
Oh, this night is going to be very long.