2

I crossed my arms over my chest, and I felt the cold from the windowpane. I could see my reflection as a faint outline. The city below was so beautiful, but it was hard to appreciate it when I felt so low. I never shed a tear in front of him. I turned to the feeling that was the easiest to feel—which was anger. “Were there others?”

“No.” His answer was quick, almost too quick.

I turned around and faced him, studying his hard eyes. His hair was dark like espresso, and his eyes were warm like hazelnut. His Italian ancestry was visible on his skin, and he spoke both French and Italian, one of the things that had attracted me to him. Marriage was such a profound experience that changed everything, and my marriage had left all kinds of scars. Even when we were so far apart, I still felt attached to him. But I didn’t want to be attached to him. “Were there others?”

His eyes flinched slightly when I asked the question again, a subtle hesitation. “No.”

I studied his face, searching for a hint of a lie and unsure how to decipher what I saw. But I knew that I shouldn’t even have to ask the question, that I shouldn’t have to wonder if it was a lie or the truth. “I need to think.”

“There was no one else⁠—”

“I need space, Adrien. Stop blowing up my phone and lurking in my apartment like a goddamn stalker so I can have two seconds to think.” I turned back to the window and watched a water drop streak to the bottom and disappear.

He lingered for a moment, his eyes hot on my spine, but then his feet eventually shifted and he left the apartment, taking as long as possible, as if I might ask him to come back.

I was a bartender at Silencio, a bar that was a thirty-minute walk from my apartment. I never took a taxi, even when I got off work at almost three in the morning, because it was just too expensive. And there was nothing more peaceful than walking Paris at night—especially in the rain.

It was a busy night at the bar, lots of people in the main room and dispersed throughout the other lounges. Waitresses would wait on those people and bring them drinks and small bites. I stayed at the bar and helped the people waiting for a table. At the beginning of the night, it was usually young people who’d just gotten off work and needed a drink after a stressful day. As the night passed, it turned into romantic dates. And then around midnight, different characters came in, rich men who wanted a place to drink in peace.

I’d adopted a habit of constantly scanning down the bar to see if anyone else needed a drink, and while my gaze wandered, I spotted him come through the door.

I gripped a bottle by the neck and halted where I stood. Holy fuck.

The second he entered the room, he disturbed the air around him. I wasn’t sure what I noticed first, the fact that he was tall as fuck or hot as fuck. He had to be at least six foot three, but that might have been a conservative guess. He wore only a black t-shirt even though it was a rainy night, and he filled it out better than any mannequin at the mall. Thick shoulders and muscular arms, the kind that had veins so strained they looked like they were about to pop. He carried himself like he was important but also with an I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude. He had black ink everywhere, visible on both of his arms and on his hands, and even up his neck to his jawline. I’d never felt any particular way about tattoos, but I’d also never seen a man wear them so well.

He seemed to be alone because he moved to the only vacant chair before he took a seat, and the light from the bar behind me illuminated his beautiful and rugged face. I’d only been working at Silencio for a couple weeks, so perhaps he was a regular I’d never encountered before.

I continued to stand there with my fingers on the neck of the bottle, the rest of the patrons at the bar absorbed in conversation, my attention on the man who made my hair stand on end just because he’d stepped into my space.

The only pretty feature about him was his eyes. Crystal blue, like the waters along the white shores of a tropical paradise, more brilliant than the sky on a clear day. But the rest of his face was harsh, with sharp cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, and a mouth that looked like it could do more damage than a bullet from a gun.

His elbow rested on the counter as his fingers gently grazed his jawline, veins popping. He glanced at the menu that sat there but didn’t seem to read it, like he already knew what he wanted. Then his eyes shifted to me, the confidence so striking it was like staring straight into the sun.

Oh my lord.

I was still holding the neck of a wine bottle, and I finally returned it to its holder behind the bar and walked over, my heart like a frog in my throat, so intimidated by his appearance that I wasn’t sure if I could wait on him. “What can I get you?” It took all my strength not to stumble over my words, not to make a complete idiot out of myself and just act natural.

He stared at me for a solid three seconds, his blue eyes not needing to blink, having way more confidence than I did. “Scotch, on the rocks. Make it a double.”

“You got it.” I pulled out the bottle and made the drink.

He didn’t watch my hands as I prepared the drink. Stared straight at my face. Still didn’t blink.

I presented the drink to him. “Lemme know when you need another. I’ll be around.” I turned so I wouldn’t see his reaction, knowing I needed to put as much distance between us as possible. He was so distracting that I wouldn’t be able to finish up my shift if I continued to look at him. The fantasies were already passing through my mind, and I told myself it was only because it’d been a while since I had any dick.

But I had a feeling I’d never had any dick like that.

The bar started to grow quiet as people left for the night. He ordered another scotch and drank it alone at the bar, the chairs empty on either side of him. He didn’t distract himself looking at his phone, just stared at his reflection in the mirror against the wall or stared off into the distance. He seemed perfectly fine drinking alone, not having anyone to talk to or anywhere to go. It didn’t seem like he was there to pick up a woman for the night because he never looked at anyone in the room.

I wanted him to leave so I could finally release the breath I held, but I also dreaded the moment he walked out of that bar and I never saw him again. I stood at the counter and wiped off the bottles, doing my cleanup during the downtime so I could get out of there quicker after we closed.

“Bastien.”

My eyes flicked to him, my heart in my throat again.

He took a drink then licked his lips. “This is where you tell me your name.”

He was just as arrogant as I pegged him to be—but still hot as fuck. “Fleur.”

He extended his empty glass, silently asking for another.

If he were someone else, I would have cut him off, but despite all the scotch he drank, he didn’t seem even remotely incapacitated. He was either a functional drunk or his tolerance was sky-high. I poured another drink and placed it in front of him.

He raised his glass in a gesture of gratitude before he took a sip. His striking eyes were glued to mine, having the confidence to hold an intimate level of eye contact like we were lovers when we were strangers. He cocked his head slightly, as if he saw something in my stare. “There’s a story behind those eyes.”

“Is there a story behind yours?”

A subtle smile moved over his lips, and that little shift changed his entire face. The arrogance dulled in his eyes, and it was replaced by a hint of playfulness. He shook the ice in his glass before he took a drink. “Definitely.” He returned it to the counter and stared at it for a second before he looked at me again. “You first.”

Normally, when men made a pass at me, I flirted back in a restrained way, wanting them to have a good time and for me to get a good tip. But I was never honest about who I was or what I felt. But when I looked into those blue eyes, the truth was pulled out of me. “I’m in the middle of a divorce—sorta.”

“Sorta?”

“I’ve tried filing the paperwork multiple times, but it’s always rejected.”

A sharpness entered his gaze, and his fingers moved over the top of his glass.

“He’s well-connected to powerful people.” I answered the question he never asked. “And he’ll put me through hell to get away from him.”

“Power and wealth go hand in hand,” he said. “So why are you working here?”

“Because I don’t want his money. I was poor before him, and I can be poor after him.” It had been a harsh change, not having a driver to take me where I needed to go, getting my own groceries and carrying them up the stairs, having to do my own laundry and make sure I didn’t turn the heater too high. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to afford the bill. But it was still better than a life of luxury with a liar.