Chapter 35
Chapter
Thirty-Five
JO
-sometimes when we touch-
When the front door closed behind us with a soft click, an hour or so ago, I knew that suddenly the last remaining wisp of Parisian air was gone, replaced by the warm, familiar hush of my father’s house.
Axel asked me to have dinner with him tonight, and I agreed.
I have unpacked, showered, and changed, and I am ready to go downstairs to meet him in the dining room.
I don’t know how I feel about this whole affair.
I was worried that sex with Axel over the weekend was a bad idea because I might get a bit too attached to him and find it hard to let go.
What I didn’t expect was to fall head over heels in love with him.
But I have. I told myself I would obviously have to let him go, but then when we were on the way to the airport, he started saying things …
dangerous things. Now that I know he doesn’t want to leave Paris in Paris, it kind of complicates things.
Because I still know there’s no future for us long-term.
If I feel this bereft at the thought of letting him go after spending one weekend with Axel, how much harder would it be if I let myself spend the next ten months with him and then have to let him go?
The reality is I’ve started calling this place home, but it’s only a temporary home.
After a year, I must go back to London, where my real life is, and Axel will be here, where his real life is.
I have to be strong now to stop me from breaking completely down the line.
At the same time, it would be too weird if Axel and I went back to moving around the mansion trying not to bump into each other.
I would like us to be friends if nothing else, which is why I agreed to this dinner tonight.
Axel knows that it is only dinner. I think I made that very clear.
I mean, he laughed and said whatever. I guess the ball is in my court on that score.
He has made his intentions known, and he is waiting for me to come to him now.
I just have to keep the ball firmly over here.
It’s going to be hard, I’m sure, but I am determined to do it.
I make my way across the landing and down the stairs.
As I head for the dining room, I can smell the scent of the newly waxed floors.
It’s quiet here. Too quiet, in a way. My heels echo on the marble as I walk down the long hallway towards the dining room.
I enter the room, and Axel stands when he sees me.
Axel has a careful, quiet command about him, the kind of presence that makes a room feel smaller, more intimate.
He smiles at me, and instantly, I begin to doubt my decision to leave Paris behind us.
“Good evening,” I say shyly as I approach the table. The candle light flickers against the polished mahogany table, dancing across the crystal and the plates already laid out with impeccable precision.
Axel pulls a chair out for me next to the head of the table, and I sit to his right.
The table has been set for two, and I feel suddenly awkward, although I don’t know why.
I suddenly don’t know where to look, what to say, or where to put my hands.
I reach out and take a sip from the water glass nearest to me.
The water is cold and crisp, and I sip again before setting it back down.
Axel glances at me out of the corner of his eye.
“You’re unusually quiet,” he notes.
I decide the only way to get past the awkwardness is to just be myself and let time do its thing. “And you’re unusually observant.” The light teasing tone in my voice belies the flutter in my stomach.
“I notice when things shift,” he says smoothly. “Small movements. Little tells.”
I give a nervous laugh. “Then I guess you’re more dangerous than I thought you were.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying me, the movement subtle but deliberate. “Dangerous?” he repeats softly. “Or irresistible?”
I flush at the unexpected question and quickly look away. “I’ll let you figure that one out for yourself,” I say softly, though my heart is hammering in a way I refuse to acknowledge.
I fidget slightly, smoothing my skirt over my knees and resisting the urge to reach out and brush my hand along his.
I am pleased when one of the wait staff enters the dining room, carrying a large silver tray containing two steaming plates.
The savory smell wafting off them is delicious, and my stomach growls.
The meal is placed before us, and as we begin to eat, I focus on the mundane: the taste of the first bite of the roasted chicken, which has been cooked to perfection, the earthy smell of the sautéed root vegetables, the subtle tang of the red wine Axel has poured for both of us. As we eat, I begin to relax slightly.
“So,” I say lightly, cutting a roast potato in half. “How is the empire?”
He lifts one eyebrow. “The empire?”
“Yes. The vast corporate kingdom that you rule with an iron fist.”
He leans back slightly, studying me. “Is this your attempt at neutral conversation?”
“Absolutely.”
“And here I thought you were genuinely interested in my iron-fisted ruling style.”
I give him a pointed look, and a flicker of heat passes between us. Quick. Unmistakable.
“The business is going to be complicated this week. There is a lot to get through.”
“Oh?” I latch onto it gratefully. “Sounds like you’ll be super busy.”
“I will. We closed a big merger on Thursday. Now it’s a matter of getting everything running smoothly.”
I whistle softly. “That’s big. Was it dramatic? Please tell me there was at least one boardroom showdown.”
He laughs. “No showdowns.”
“That’s disappointing.”
“There was, however,” he says, leaning forward slightly. “A moment where their CFO tried to derail the entire negotiation because of a muffin.”
I blink in surprise. “Ok, maybe this won’t be so disappointing after all. A muffin?”
“Yes.”
“Please elaborate, because I refuse to believe global finance can be undone by baked goods.”
His mouth curves. He likes it when I challenge him. I can see it.
“We’d been in meetings for eight hours,” he begins. “Everyone was exhausted. Numbers were flying everywhere. The lawyers were circling like vultures. We decide to break for coffee. Someone orders refreshments.”
“And?”
“And apparently Archer’s CFO has very strong feelings about muffins.”
I stare at him. “No.”
“Yes.”
“What kind of feelings?”
“He believes,” Axel says gravely. “That raisins are an act of betrayal.”
I choke on my wine. “Raisins?”
“There were raisins in the muffins. They were mislabeled as blueberry. He took it personally.”
“You’re joking.”
“I am not. Holding the muffin as if it had personally offended his ancestors, he announced that if we couldn’t get basic hospitality right, perhaps we weren’t aligned strategically”
I laugh, properly laugh, and he watches me indulgently. And suddenly, I know. He made the story up to make me laugh.
“That never happened, did it?”
Amusement dances in his eyes. “It could have.”
I shake my head, still smiling.
He watches me for a moment, his expression softening. “I like it when you laugh. You weren’t earlier.”
The observation lands gently, not accusing. Just aware.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically. “But can we just eat dinner without dissecting our emotional frameworks?”
His mouth twitches. “Is that a formal request?”
“Yes.”
He leans back, considering me, then he nods once. “All right.”
Relief unfurls in my chest.
“For the record,” he adds casually, picking up his glass and sipping his wine, watching me over the rim the whole time. “The sexual tension is entirely your fault.”
I nearly drop my fork. “My fault?”
“You’re the one who keeps looking at my mouth.”
“I am not,” I deny hotly.
“You so are.”
“I am absolutely not.”
His eyes darken slightly. “You just did it again.”
My pulse stumbles. I force myself to focus on my plate. “You’re so bad.”
“Why did you ask about my merger?”
“That was a safe topic.”
“Nothing about me is safe, Jo. Not even the mergers.”
The words are quiet. Not arrogant. Just true. I risk looking at him again.
“And nothing about you,” he continues softly. “Makes me want to take the safe route.”
The air thickens. I swallow. “Tell me something else about work,” I blurt out.
He exhales a low laugh, but he obliges. “All right. Do you remember Harrison? My head of legal? He was at Joseph’s wake.”
“The one who looks permanently stressed?”
“That’s the one.”
“Yes, I remember him. He looked so stressed at the wake that I was starting to think he had murdered my father and was just waiting to be arrested.”
“He accidentally sent the draft merger agreement to the wrong person. He selected what he thought was the right Mark from the email directory.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
“Who was the other Mark?”
“My tailor.”
I press my lips together, trying not to laugh. “What did he do?”
“He replied with, ‘I assume this is not about trouser alterations.”
I burst out laughing again, and this time Axel joins me, the sound warm and unguarded.
“You’re all as bad as each other,” I say.
“Probably.”
“But I like hearing about it.”
“Why?”
“Because when you tell it like that, you don’t sound like a cold machine anymore. You sound almost human.”
His expression shifts again, softer now.
“I am human. I bleed for those I love.”
For the next half hour, we talk about everything else – a mishap I had with a delivery of art I was meant to be restoring, a story about Axel being mistaken for a lifeguard. Each anecdote is light, teasing, causing both of us to laugh.
And yet, every time I laugh, I catch him watching me. And every time he speaks, I notice how his voice holds a velvety tension beneath the calm words, the way the memory of his tongue between my legs lingers in my chest, in my mind, reminding me of Paris.
And what we had there.
We finish the meal, and he reaches for his wine glass and swirls the liquid thoughtfully. I notice the slight flex of his jaw as he glances at me, measuring, as if daring me to break the invisible rules we’ve set.
“So,” he says finally, breaking the near silence when I don’t rise up to his bait, “Should we start planning the art sale idea?”
I nod, and the next hour or so flies by with us throwing ideas on who to invite other than the suspects, what exactly to say, and which paintings to show.
We decide to finalize everything at the end of the week when I will have had the chance to restore at least another painting, and Axel should have his merger under control and be able to think about something else.
Satisfied with our plan, we leave the dining room and head up the stairs. At the landing, where our paths split toward our respective suites, Axel stops and turns slightly towards me. His presence is close, commanding, impossible to ignore.
“Jo,” he says, his voice low, intimate, the tone that makes my stomach twist. “It’s goodnight then?”
I nod, resolute, though the ache in my chest wants to betray me.
“I guess so. I mean … I can’t … I loved our time in Paris. I would like to continue that; really, I would … but I can’t. Not now. We live worlds apart.”
He tilts his head, studying me.
“It’s not practical,” I blurt.
“It’s never practical,” he murmurs, taking a step closer to me.
I glance down, my pulse quickening. “Axel …”
“Shh,” he interrupts me gently, tilting my chin up with his fingers, brushing the hair from my face. “I would never hurt you.”
“Not intentionally,” I whisper.
He leans closer, his forehead brushing mine, our warm breath mingling. “You say it’s not practical,” he murmurs softly. “But what if … being impractical is part of life? It’s what makes living worth it?”
My chest tightens. “I won’t,” I murmur. “I can’t. It’s hard enough to let you go now. I can’t let this get out of hand. I plan to go back to England. My life is there.”
He shifts closer until his lips are brushing my cheek, light, tentative. My body responds before my mind can catch up, leaning slightly toward him despite my resolve. And then, impossibly, his lips are on mine, soft at first, questioning, then deepening as I melt against him.
I kiss him like I am starving… and he is food.
The kiss says everything. It tells of my desire.
My forced restraint. Our mutual longing for things to be different.
The kiss holds a history of moments that Paris held, of stolen nights, and shared memories.
In that moment, I let the world fade away, forgetting time and distance and logic for the briefest of moments.
But I have to come back to reality. Before the animalistic side of me takes over and I can’t stop myself, I pull back, my breath catching in my throat.
“Goodnight, Axel,” I whisper, my voice trembling, betraying how close I came to losing control.
And I move, hurrying down the hall before the weight of reality, of consequences, can break me entirely. I feel his eyes watching me as I run down the corridor. I reach my suite and close the door behind me, leaning back against it for a moment, my hand pressed tightly to the wood.
Dammit. I was never meant to fall for Axel Rhodes. Paris was supposed to be a bit of fun. Light, thrilling, ephemeral. Nothing more. I close my eyes, drawing a deep breath.
I remind myself again that I am here for my father’s collection.
For restoration. For the work I came to do.
Nothing else. Starting tomorrow, I will focus solely on that.
On the paintings, on the provenance, on the delicate brush strokes and hidden details.
I will spend every waking moment in the vault, getting as much as I can ready to use to catch our art thief.
I will think about nothing else. Not Axel. Not love. Not whatever Paris did to me.
I open my eyes and straighten up. Resolve settles over me like a mantle, heavy but necessary. Tomorrow, I will start again. I will wipe Axel Rhodes from my mind completely, and I will stay the course. No more distractions. No more getting into messy situations.
Just the work.