16. Rule #16 It’s not creepy at all to keep her sweater, especially if she was the one who took your scarf first.
Matis
Iwill have the softness of her ass embedded in my memory forever. The sound of her breathy moans. The taste of her lips.
I’m a fool for letting myself indulge because it will haunt me for the rest of my days.
And now she’s sitting beside me in a taxi for the last bit of our journey back to her place.
The clock on the dash shows that it’s almost four.
We have spent the last four hours together, walking around the streets of Paris, and the reason is not lost on me.
Amelia only wanted to extend her wasted evening, and me? I am a selfish man, and I simply wanted to be near her for as long as I could. Then, because I truly have no self-control, I took her in my arms, and I did things I was never supposed to do.
I’m a monster.
Amelia’s head rests against my arm, and I can tell by the weight of her lean that she’s asleep. The ride is very short, only ten minutes, but it’s enough to send her into her dreams.
What will she think when she wakes up in the morning?
Will she be mortified that I touched her the way I did?
Will she tell her father what a terrible creep I am?
Will she avoid me forever now? I wouldn’t blame her for any of it.
She only asked for a kiss, and I took it too far. I should have known better.
When we reach her house, I maneuver her onto my lap and awkwardly climb out of the car without waking her. She stirs for only a second, just to look into my eyes, but then she nuzzles into my chest and falls back to sleep.
Because she trusts me.
And I took advantage of her.
With a relenting sigh, I carry her into the house, using the key the family gave me years ago.
Again, because they trust me.
The house is dark and quiet as I carefully tiptoe inside with Amelia sleeping in my arms. I take each stair as slowly and lightly as I can until I reach her wing of the house. She has her own sitting room and bathroom and large bedroom, which overlooks the alleyway behind the house.
I have never been inside Amelia’s room, at least not that I can ever remember, but the moment I walk inside, I breathe in the familiar scent of her. Lilac and vanilla. With only the moon to illuminate the space, I amble through the room toward her bed.
As I deposit her on the mattress, she wakes up and reaches for me. “Stay with me.”
Merde. What would her father think of me then?
If he woke up to find his fifty-three-year-old friend in bed with his twenty-five-year-old daughter, he’d never trust me again.
I don’t want to put my best friend in the grave, so I brush her hair from her forehead and kiss her delicately on the temple.
“I can’t, mon trésor. Go to sleep.”
“I like when you call me that,” she mumbles sleepily.
With a smile, I move to my feet and carefully peel off each of her black boots, setting them quietly on the floor as she curls under the blankets on her bed. Then I help her out of her pale-yellow sweater and hold it against my chest as I stare down at her.
“More than Trouble?” I ask.
“Mm-hmm.”
“But you are both, you know?” I reply with a chuckle. “Trouble and a treasure.”
“Fine,” she mutters.
And suddenly, I feel as if I can breathe a little lighter. She is not treating me differently because of the way I defiled her. We are still us. Just like after that awful moment in the club when she watched me with that woman.
I take some solace in knowing that my relationship with my goddaughter is strong enough that it can withstand anything. We are still us. Our bond remains.
“Bonne nuit, Trouble,” I say, delicately ruffling her hair.
“Good night, old man.”
Feeling much lighter, I stand from the bed, still holding her sweater, and smile on my way out the door.
Before I can leave, the dim light of the moon shines on some sketches and pieces of artwork tacked onto her wall.
I stop and admire each one, even though she is already snoring quietly on the bed.
I wish I had half the talent Amelia does. Her creativity is so pure and born from something innate within her. She comes up with things so original I can’t comprehend how she plucked the idea out of thin air. Each sketch is stunning and evokes a feeling inside me I can’t describe.
No matter what happens between us, I will push her toward her dreams. I have to. I will make sure she gets into that program. We will host the best fashion show that club has ever seen—okay, the only fashion show the club has ever seen, but genius nonetheless.
For the first time in a long time, I feel drive again. Not since I worked at L’ Amour have I felt this much purpose. Because this is something I care about. And maybe in some way, this is how I can make it up to her. How I can pay my penance for what I’ve subjected her to tonight.
Even if she did sound as if she enjoyed that kiss. That doesn’t matter because I’m older than her and I should be the one to say when enough is enough. I must be the one to say no when it needs to be said.
She depends on me. Trusts me. Follows me. I can’t abuse that trust for my own selfish desire. Amelia doesn’t want an old man like me. She wants that foolish young man she had the date with.
With that, I turn toward the door to leave.
A splash of red catches my eye.
Turning toward the back of the door, it’s a hint of familiarity that keeps my gaze glued to the spot where a red plaid scarf hangs from a hook.
The first thought that crosses my mind is that I once had a scarf just like this. Even as I reach out and run it between my fingers, I realize how similar it is to the one I had.
The second thought I have is that this is my scarf. Somehow Amelia must have gotten it. Perhaps I lent it to her when she was cold, or I accidentally left it here and she claimed it as her own.
Then…and I blame the late hour and lack of sleep on the slowness of this realization…I remember the story her brother told at the restaurant just last week.
And just like that, everything suddenly makes sense.
Sitting on my sofa in my apartment, I hold Amelia’s yellow sweater between my fingers while staring ahead. I don’t know why I took it, but for some reason, I felt as if I had no choice. Maybe like a trade or a token.
She kept my scarf.
All these years.
Why? Well, according to her brother, it’s because she’s madly in love with the owner.
Me.
I have no idea what to do with this information now. Is it possible Julian was lying or confused, and Amelia didn’t bother to correct him? That must be more possible than the other option, which is that she truly does…love me.
No, a crush. It’s just a young girl’s crush. Amelia is a hopeless romantic. She gets attached, and when she falls, she falls hard. So that’s all this was. A crush.
Then I remember the way she asked me to kiss her. Told me to touch her. Begged me to take her back to my place.
That didn’t sound like a crush.
I drop my head in my hands, and my cock twitches in my pants at the memory of that kiss. She truly wanted so much more with me, and now I understand why.
I wasn’t the only one taking advantage of the other. She wanted me as much as I wanted her.
How the fuck have I missed this for so long? Was I really so blind to her infatuation?
I scrub a hand over the stubble on my face. No matter how I try, I can’t deny the mix of emotions swirling inside me. Shock, mortification, regret…and delight.
Yes, she is my goddaughter. Yes, she is still obscenely off-limits.
But it feels good to know she feels for me the way I feel for her. No wonder that kiss was so passionate. No wonder the chemistry between us burns so brightly.
But as soon as my mood is lifted, it falls.
Because there is no room in this equation for hope. It does not matter if the feelings are mutual. It doesn’t change the fact that I cannot be with Amelia.
The love that could potentially grow between us is wasted.
She can never know that I know. It was her idea to find me a partner, likely to try and move on from this crush. So that is what we will do. We must.
The sun is already coming up when I finally strip out of my clothes and climb into bed. Believe it or not, I’m still not even tired. I can’t stop thinking about that dance in Trocadero or that kiss or the fucking scarf.
In the last few hours alone, my life has been turned upside down by a five-foot-three blond. I should be filled with regret, but instead, I feel something more akin to excitement.
Part of me considers reaching into my briefs and stroking my cock with the phantom memory of her ass in my hand, but I don’t. Instead, I close my eyes and lift her pale-yellow sweater to my nose, breathing in the scent of her the same way I’m sure she did with my scarf for years.
As I drift off to sleep, I do so with “La Vie en Rose” playing on repeat in my mind.