I folded the note and tucked it back into my wallet when I reached room 403.
Freshman year French.
I wrapped my hand around the knob and opened the door, then my eyes roamed across the sea of desks. Nerves whipped through me. I wasn’t a natural at languages. I was good at business, at strategy. Those were my skills. But I’d taken a night class during my senior year of high school, and I was committed to seeing this through. This note was part of the plan—the plan I’d discussed and hatched with my dad. The plan to apply to school in France, to be with Annalise, to make a life with her.
Reminder: Tell Michael he’s signed up for French classes in the evening. A gift to him. He needs to learn the language for when he goes to school there. He needs to learn French for Annalise. So he can find his way back to her.
I hadn’t been able to get into college in France the first time around, and she’d had no luck in the United States.
But I could keep trying. Because . . . there was always someday.
It was my father’s wish for me, and I would fulfill it.
I stepped into the classroom, daunted but ready, and started working my ass off to learn another language.
Six years later, at age twenty-four, I was fluent. During those six years, Annalise and I had lost touch, but by the time I was done with school, on my own, serving my country, I was ready to find my way back to her.
So I tracked her down and sent her the letter. Je n’ai jamais cessé de t’aimer.
40
Michael
She sat up in bed, staring at me like I’d skydived in from another planet and landed kaput on her bed.
“Michael?” She raised an eyebrow.
I rubbed my hand over my jaw. “Yeah?”
“Did you just have a conversation with me in French?”
My shoulders tightened, and I silently cursed myself. There was no denying it. I’d done nothing wrong, but I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t said those things. “Not a whole conversation. Just a few words,” I said, desperately trying to sidestep.
“How did you know what to say?”
My heart slammed against my chest. I didn’t want to tell her. Not yet. I didn’t want to expose myself like this. I didn’t want to reveal the full extent of what I’d done for her. That my desire to find her again, to be with her again, had driven me to learn a whole new language. “It was just a few words. That’s all,” I said, then glanced at the clock on the nightstand. “You have an early flight. Let’s get some sleep.”
“Okay,” she said in a strained voice.
I turned out the light. “Come here. Come closer,” I murmured, and wrapped my arms around her.
“I’m already close.”
She snuggled into me, giving in on this count.
“Michael,” she said, her tone pleading as she pressed her warm body to mine, skin to skin.
I kissed her hair. “Not now.”
“I want to know.”
“Just let me hold you.”
She sighed, relenting. “Thank you.”
“For?”
“For taking my picture.”
I smiled into her neck and kissed her there, inhaling her scent. “I want you to be happy. Tell me you won’t regret this. Or me.”
She shook her head. “I don’t regret you. I could never regret you. But I want to know—”
I whispered into her hair. “Shh…”
I just couldn’t go there tonight. I would break.
41
Annalise
His breathing evened out, and soon he was asleep. I stared at the bright green letters on the hotel clock. After midnight. I had a five a.m. wake-up call, and the world’s earliest flight to Paris.
Back home.
My chest ached. I missed him already.
I hadn’t realized when I sought him out how much I needed this. Contact. Emotion. Passion. I’d been so shut down, but one flip of the switch from him, and the electricity was powered on, bright and shining, lighting up a whole city.
Perhaps that was why I’d searched for him when I went to Vegas. Because now I was free to roam, to return to wondering what-if. To my first love.
Such a big love.
Maybe I’d always been destined to find my way to him again. I’d told myself he was safe, but I wasn’t looking for safety, as I’d quickly learned in a few short days with him. I was on the hunt for connection, for that thread between two people. I may not have realized it that afternoon at the Bellagio, but I knew it now, and I had discovered the mother lode with him.
But tonight I had something new to noodle on. A twist. A surprise.
Something I hadn’t expected.
His sudden fluency.
It perplexed me that he’d spoken to me in French, then tried to deny it. There was nothing wrong with him knowing my language, but I was so damn curious for details. How he’d learned it. Why he’d hidden it.
And if he’d done so for the same reasons I’d made similar choices. I’d chosen to refine my English at university, but not simply for the sake of fluency. I’d done it so that I could sound as American as I could, so I’d have the chance to come back here someday, to have an easier time of finding work, to converse fully and easily with Americans.
To fit seamlessly into his world.
A lump formed in my throat, tightening as I thought of the past, of how much we’d wanted to stay together, but of how damn hard it was. And how time and distance had pulled us apart.
Still, I desperately wanted to know more.
But the clock told me it was too late to press.
The next morning, I showered, stuffed my toiletries into my suitcase, and checked that my car service was on the way. But I couldn’t seem to let go of what I’d learned about Michael last night.
Perhaps it was the former journalist in me, the part of me that chased answers, that hunted for truths.
I checked my watch. Ten more minutes. I couldn’t wait.
I blurted out, “Why did you hide from me that you know French? It’s driving me crazy. I want to know.”
“I don’t really know it well.”
But he looked away from me as he grabbed the handle of my suitcase, rolled my bag to the door, and reached for the door handle, his cool blue eyes glancing anywhere but my face.
That was my answer, but I wanted the confirmation. I followed him, shouldering my purse, then stopped him from opening the door. I placed my hand on his arm, then ran my fingers up to his hair. I turned him to face me. Pressed my forehead to his. And spoke to him in French, rapid-fire. “You’re amazing, and I adore you. I want to see you over and over. I want you to do everything to me and with me. You make me feel happy again, and when you come to Paris, I will show you everything, and you can have me in alleys and staircases, and we can fuck in museums and in restaurant bathrooms, and then you can make love to me in bed. You can talk dirty to me and tell me how much you want me, and I will tell you the same, because I do. So much I ache for you now.”
He trembled and bit his lip like he was holding in all the things he wanted to say.
Determination spurred me on. “And you make me feel again. I feel things for you I haven’t felt in years. Or for anyone. Do you know how terrifying that is for me?” I said, laying my heart bare. I was heading to the airport in ten minutes, jetting away from him once again. What did I have to lose? I’d already lost him once, so rolling the dice on this truth from my heart was a chance I had to take.
His eyes squeezed shut, his expression pained. Then he opened them and met my gaze.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I know. And I want all of that too.”
I inhaled deeply and cupped his cheeks. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
I was dying to know the answer.
42
Michael
Because it revealed everything, that was why. Because it showed all my cards. It told her the full extent of my feelings, then and now.
Slumping against the door, I dragged a han
d through my hair.
And then stopped.
Stopped keeping it all inside.
Stopped biting my tongue.
“Why didn’t I tell you I learned French for you?” I tossed out the question like an attorney on cross-examination. “Why didn’t I admit I spent six years studying your language because I was in love with you?”
I’d wanted to hide it, to keep it from her. I hadn’t been sure I was ready to share everything when we were just finding our way again. But those words, those things she said . . . I couldn’t help but reciprocate.
She pressed her hand to her chest. “You learned French for me?”
“You make it sound foolish.”
She shook her head. “No. I’m just processing. It’s big. That’s a big thing. How did you do it?”
“I started freshman year of college. It was my father’s idea. He even wrote me a note about it,” I said softly, so my voice wouldn’t break. “He knew me better than anyone. He knew you were all I wanted. He wanted me to be with you. And I still have the note,” I said, reaching into my back pocket, opening my wallet, and taking out the worn, threadbare sheet of lined paper with his last words.
Annalise covered her mouth. Her bright eyes glistened with tears. “Your father wanted you to learn the language for me?”
I nodded and swallowed thickly. “He was practical, and he was romantic. He knew I wanted to be with you. He wanted me to be fully prepared, including the ability to speak the language and get a job. So I could live and work and be in France with you.” I rubbed my hand across the back of my neck. “I took classes in college. I used to think I was doing it for him. And maybe, in some ways, that was how it started. A way to feel connected to the man who was gone. But I didn’t let myself believe that for too long.”
“It wasn’t for him?” she asked softly.
I shook my head. “No. His note might have been the reason I started, but you were the reason I never stopped. I wanted to be with you.”
“I wanted it just as much. You have to know that,” she said, her bright green eyes wide open and honest, not shying away. “Michael,” she said, soft and tender. “That’s why I learned to speak without an accent.”
“It is?”
She nodded. “I went to the American University in Paris to be surrounded by English speakers. I needed to refine my language skills so I could speak like a native for business. So I’d fit into your world, if I could find my way back to you.”
My heart hammered in my chest from her admission, from the things we’d both done.
But once again, what we’d done hadn’t been enough to bring us back together then.
“You do fit in.” I glanced at my watch, trying to avoid this deeper dive. “Your car will be here in five minutes.”
“I know, but this conversation is important.”
It is, but I didn’t know how long I would last. There was so much more to it, so much more it revealed on my end.
I grabbed her suitcase, opened the door again, and headed with her to the elevator banks. I pushed the button and then met her curious gaze. This was so damn hard. Putting myself out there. I waited for her to go next.
“I knew you had started taking classes, but I had no idea you’d become fluent. After we lost touch, why did you continue learning it?” she asked as we stepped inside the elevator.
That was the question. And the answer would reveal everything.
I drew a deep breath, weighing.
Ah hell. What did I stand to lose now? She was getting on a plane, leaving again. She might as well know. The elevator doors slid closed, and I fixed her with a serious stare. “Because I never got over you. I never stopped loving you. Even when we fell apart, I wanted to find my way back to you.”
There it was.
My heart. Served up. Given to her once again.
Her lips parted. She stepped closer. “I wanted that too,” she said, placing a hand on my chest as the car chugged downward. “Don’t you know that?”
But that was the thing. I didn’t know. “No. How would I have known? We didn’t talk anymore.”
“I thought about you all the time. I saved up every cent I earned from my job at a café. I was setting it all aside to see you again.”
“You did?” I asked, surprised. She was shocking me too with her admissions, with the realization that we’d both been trying from afar for a someday.
She nodded. “Yes. The year we tried to stay together and then through the rest of university. I wanted the same thing, Michael. I wanted to find a way back to you. That’s why I had sent you the letter you never received.”
The car cranked its way to the lobby, closer to goodbye. With each floor we passed, my emotions tightened, rising to the surface.
Perhaps it was her letter. Maybe it was knowing the wish to be together again had never been one-sided. I’d kept such a tight lid on my emotions since Marseilles, squeezing them in, stuffing them into an airtight box, denying I felt anything for her still. I was tired of it. I was in love with her. I wanted her to know the full scope of my love, how far and deep it went. How it consumed me. Drove me. Carried me through the days and nights. The last time I saw her, I lost her. I might not have had a chance with her then, but I had a chance with her now. I wanted her to know.
The doors opened, and I walked through the lobby and out to the crowded avenue, already thick with morning traffic and the din of horns and screech of tires. I peered down the street. Her car wasn’t here yet. I turned to her. My God, she was beautiful, and she was here, and I wanted her to know who she was to me.
Everything.
“Annalise, I learned French so I could be with you. I wanted to be able to be with you wherever you were. It was all for you.”
She nodded, listening. Waiting for me to say more.
I gripped her shoulder. “I know how to say I love you and I want you and You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved. I know how to say a million other things like”—I switched to French—“you came back into my life now, and it’s the same you, the same girl I fell in love with eighteen years ago, and it’s the same me. It’s the same us. But it’s better because we’ve both lived. We’re strong, but more fragile. We’re tough, but still vulnerable. And I want to love you. Because . . .” I said, placing a hand on her cheek, her red hair blowing in the breeze.
Her tongue darted out, and she licked her lips, anticipation evident in the set of her jaw, the look in her eyes.
I swallowed, saying the last of my piece. “Because I’ve been in love with you forever. I’ve been in love with you for eighteen years.”
She pressed her teeth into her bottom lip, her shoulders rising and falling.
“And it’s driving me insane,” I said. “I hold the words inside. But every time I’m with you, I want to shout the truth of how I feel for you. That I love you, I’m in love with you, and I’ve never ever stopped.”
My admission echoed down the avenue, ringing across the entire city.
Trying desperately to read her reaction, to find out if this was a one-way path again, I searched her face. In her worried eyes, I saw fear and uncertainty. I wanted to kick myself. Perhaps I should have waited. Held back until we were on solid ground, until we were far enough along that I was sure she loved me too.
“I,” she whispered, and her voice sounded feathery, like it came from another part of her. “I . . .”
Her car pulled up. The driver cut the engine.
“You need to go,” I said, tipping my chin toward the black vehicle.
She wrapped a hand around my bicep. It felt too good. I couldn’t be tricked by the feel of her. “You have to know how I feel for you now. I feel so much for you. Tell me you know. You have to know.”
My head understood that of course she couldn’t mirror my exact words. Of course she hadn’t been in love with me while she was with Julien. But my heart wanted all of her, the whole time. Even though I knew that was hardly fair.
“Look, I didn’t sa
y this for you to reciprocate. I said it to be honest. Because it was eating me up. And I want you to know—I love you, and that’s just a fact of my existence.” I waved at the car and shot her a rueful look. “And you need to go. That’s a fact of yours.”
She placed her fingers on my cheeks, held my face in her hands, and kissed me. “I will miss you so much.”
That was all for now, and it had to be enough.
Seconds later, I lifted her suitcase into the trunk and walked in the other direction, not looking back.
43
Sanders
Four months ago
When I heard the siren, I cursed and banged a fist against the steering wheel. With a frustrated sigh, I flicked on my blinker and pulled to the shoulder of the highway.
A yawn erupted from my mouth. I was so tired from the drive. So damn exhausted from so many hours spent trying to finish up these last few runs to make the money I needed. Fucking college loans. Goddamn bills. Too many doctor appointments for my back. They all added up to the need for more greenbacks, so I’d taken on more runs like this one. I’d barely slept on this quick trip to California, and I’d just wanted to get home to Vegas sooner after visiting my sister in the Golden State. As I cut the engine, I peered in my rearview mirror to see the man open the door of his state trooper sedan and walk toward me.
The last person I wanted to see was an officer of the law.
The absolute last person.
I should have relied on the tried-and-true tricks for a long drive.
Gum. Coffee. Loud music.
Maybe even tried one of those damn apps my sons were always telling me to use to avoid the speed traps. But smartphones were a pain, and I’d always followed the speed limit.
My Sinful Love (Sinful Men Book 4) Page 16
