Chapter 24
Chapter
Twenty-Four
AXEL
-joe le taxi-
The hotel dining room is warm and small, the kind of place that looks like a Parisian brothel of old.
There are dark red velvet curtains and oil paintings with gilded frames on the walls.
Soft amber light spills from the candles stuck into dark wine bottles and bounces off the white tablecloths.
For a fully booked hotel, the dining room is strangely empty.
A sole waiter scuttles out of the room at my arrival.
Jo is already seated at the table by a window as I pull out my chair. Her hair catches the light and frames her face perfectly. She looks up as I scoot my chair out, her eyes sparkling with the excitement and energy she’s carried all day. My cock pulses without warning.
“Look at you,” I murmur, taking my seat across from her. “Still glowing after a day of running through the Louvre.”
She smirks, resting her chin on her hand. “Me? Glowing? You, on the other hand, look like you’re trying very hard to scare the waitstaff with your brooding.”
I let out a soft laugh. “This is not my brooding face. This is my ‘Wow, look at that beauty across the room’ face.”
She rolls her eyes, but her grin betrays her amusement. “Flattery again, Axel? You’re persistent.”
“Persistent pays off,” I say smoothly, leaning back slightly, enjoying the playful tension.
The waiter comes back with menus, and I take a moment to glance over the options.
It’s a three-star hotel, but their dinner menu can’t be faulted.
I let my eyes wander back to Jo. I’ve seen a lot in my life and encountered a lot of people, but she is unlike anyone else I’ve ever known.
There’s something magnetic about her energy, her intellect, and the way she makes even a simple moment like this feel electric.
“What are you thinking of having?” I ask, finally looking down at the menu.
Jo scans hers thoughtfully. “The duck confit sounds amazing, but so does the mushroom in red wine. Decisions, decisions.” She tilts her head, biting her lip. “What about you?”
“I was going to go with rib-eye steak, rare. Classic. But maybe I should follow your lead and be more adventurous?”
Her eyes flick up, mischievous. “You’d let me choose for you?”
“Absolutely,” I reply smoothly. “After all, my real meal comes later tonight… in bed. I’m starving for the taste of you.”
She turns an intoxicating red, and I have to fight the urge to pay off the waiter, reach across the table, grab her, and throw her on top of it. Instead of my caveman instincts, I lean forward and brush a stray lock of hair from her face. Her eyes gleam at my touch.
The waiter comes back to take our orders and then he produces a bottle of wine and pours us each a glassful before hurrying away again.
“I can’t believe you tried to argue that the Mona Lisa is overrated,” Jo says after a sip of her wine.
“I didn’t argue it’s overrated,” I correct. “I simply observed that it’s small. I imagined it bigger.”
“It’s intimate,” she counters.
“Half the mystic is gone thanks to the bulletproof glass.”
“That’s not her fault.”
I take a sip of wine. “You’re very protective.”
“She’s endured five centuries of men underestimating her,” Jo says lightly. “I can relate.”
My mouth curves. “You think I underestimate you?”
“I think most people underestimate me,” she says. “But I’m not complaining. I like playing the wallflower.”
I nearly choke on my wine. “That’s not a word I would use to describe you.”
She leans back. “Yeah? How would you describe me?”
“Electric live wire comes to mind.”
“I don’t know about live wires,” she says, folding her hands on the table. “But I definitely got the impression that you walked into the Louvre Museum with me expecting to be bored.”
“True. I expected to endure it,” I admit. “I do appreciate fine art, but I don’t make a habit of spending full days in galleries. But…”
“But?”
“But then you started explaining the geometry of The Last Supper like you were unveiling state secrets.”
Her lips twitch. “You mean, you were actually listening.”
“I always listen to live wires.”
She studies me over the rim of her glass. “Come on, admit it. You were skeptical.”
“I was testing you.”
Her eyes narrow playfully. “Testing me,” she repeats.
“Yes.”
“For what exactly?”
“Depth.”
She laughs outright at that. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I like to know who I’m investing my time in.”
“This isn’t a merger, Axel.”
“Perhaps not in the strictest sense of the word,” I agree quietly.
The words shift something between us, softens it. She glances down, then back up, her smile gentler now.
“My favorite exhibition was Caravaggio,” she says, redirecting. “The drama of it. The shadows.”
“You just like anything that looks mildly dangerous.”
“And you don’t?” she challenges me.
I lean back. “I prefer controlled risk.”
“That explains your art preferences.”
“I also noticed you spent an indecent amount of time staring at that sculpture in the Greek wing,” I say.
Her lips press together to hide a grin. “Which one?” she says, feigning innocence.
“The one with the very impressive marble anatomy.”
She chokes on her wine. “I was studying the craftsmanship.”
“Of course you were.”
“It was… accurate.”
I feel a reluctant smile tug at my mouth. “You nearly walked into a column because you were so distracted.”
“I did not nearly walk into a column.”
“You did. I had to steer you away from it.”
Her gaze flicks to my hand on the table. “You grabbed my waist.”
“It was a public safety measure.”
Her voice lowers. “It lingered.”
I don’t look away. “Did it?”
“Yes.”
A beat passes, the moment charged yet quiet, until the waiter reappears with our meals, breaking the moment. Our plates are set down with the flamboyant flourish of a five-star restaurant. Jo picks up her fork, but she doesn’t eat immediately.
“You know what surprised me the most today?”
“What?”
“You.”
“That’s vague.”
“You didn’t rush me,” she says. “Most people do in museums. They skim. They photograph. They move on.”
“I don’t skim.”
“No,” she says softly. “You analyze. You view art differently from how I do, but you still want to take it in. You stand there until you understand the structure.”
“I like systems.”
“I know.”
“And you,” I reply. “Don’t look at the structure first. You look at the intention.”
Her smile deepens at that, slow and deliberate. “You’re getting better at this.”
“At what?”
“Admitting you enjoyed yourself.”
I cut into my steak. “I enjoyed parts of it.”
“Which parts?”
I meet her eyes. “You.”
Her fork pauses in mid-air. The air between us tightens again, full of awareness. She looks down briefly, then takes a sip of wine to steady herself.
“You would have enjoyed it more if you wore more comfortable shoes,” Jo notes.
“I was wearing comfortable shoes.”
She smirks. “Polished leather brogues don’t get to call themselves ‘comfortable’.”
“I survived.”
“Barely. You winced on the marble stairs.”
“I did not wince.”
“You absolutely winced.”
I lean forward, lowering my voice. “If I admit to wincing, will you stop bringing it up?”
“Never.”
“Then I deny everything.”
She laughs softly and takes a bite of her duck. I watch the way her eyes close briefly in appreciation.
She sets her fork down slowly, and I hold her gaze. Reaching across the table, I brush my thumb lightly against her wrist.
“You’re beautiful, Jo Button.”
Outside, the lights of the Eiffel Tower flicker in the distance. Inside the restaurant, Jo Button’s cheeks are flushed from wine, argument, and art. Her eyes are bright and tantalizing.
“I’ll admit something,” I say.
She arches a brow. “A confession?”
“Yes.”
“Go on.”
“I spent less time admiring the sculptures than I implied.”
Her lips curve knowingly. “That’s hardly a confession.”
“I was watching you,” I finish, looking into her eyes as I say it. She doesn’t look away. When we finally break our gaze, I smile at her.
“You really did enjoy today, didn’t you?”
“I did,” she admits enthusiastically. “I loved seeing the pieces through your eyes too. The way you notice everything. The architecture, the light, the history. It’s actually pretty damn impressive.”
I lean back, pretending to be modest. “It was your knowledge, your eye, that made everything better.”
Jo throws her head back and laughs. “You really do have a way with words, Axel.”
I wait a moment before I speak again. “So,” I murmur, leaning in slightly and lowering my voice. “What happens in Paris stays in Paris, right?”
Jo raises an eyebrow, her lips curving with mischief. “Fine. But you have to promise to behave until we’re back in the room.”
“I promise to try,” I say, though my smile likely gives away my intention to test that promise as soon as possible.
Dessert arrives, something delicate and architecturally challenging involving chocolate and spun sugar.
“It’s so pretty I almost don’t want to ruin it,” Jo remarks.
“You didn’t hesitate with the duck.”
“That was different. That was destiny.”
I shake my head, amused, and pour more of the wine into both of our glasses. The lights have dimmed, and the low light catches her cheeks and lips. She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and looks at me across the table.
“Tell me something real about you,” she invites.
“I’ve told you many real things about me.”
“Financially viable things,” she corrects. “Not real.”
I lean back in my chair. “Define real.”
“Something small. Something odd. Something that wouldn’t appear in a biography.”
I consider her for a moment. She’s watching me intently, expectantly.
“I hate socks,” I say finally.
Her lips part in surprise. “That’s what you’re giving me?”
“I find them restrictive.”
She laughs. “You wear bespoke suits and complain about socks?”
“I remove them the second I get home.”
“That’s unexpectedly human.”
“You assumed I wasn’t human?”
“I assumed,” she says carefully. “That you were together. Not messy.”
“I’m not messy.”
She smiles. “You just confessed a domestic rebellion against hosiery.”