by Alix Nichols
“Didier? Still here, still the headwaiter. Also interested in buying the bistro, by the way.”
“Well, I hope it goes to you and not to that jerk.” Mat banged his fist on the table. “He never missed an opportunity to show how much he despised me and most of the other customers.”
“He’s not that bad. He learned to look down his nose at everyone from his mentor. Now it’s a habit.”
“Hey, guys.” Lena approached their table. “We’ll be heading home soon. I can’t feel my legs anymore.”
Jeanne looked around. Everyone had already left except Mat, Lena, and Rob. The rest of the bistro staff was gone, too.
“Thanks again, Jeanne, for helping us put this together,” Rob said.
“My pleasure.” Jeanne stood to say good-bye.
“I hope you’re not staying to clean up the mess,” Lena said as they hugged. “Remember your promise to forget you’re hosting this party, and behave like a regular guest? A special guest—my maid of honor and my best friend!”
“I’ve kept my word so far, and I intend to stick to it. I’m going to finish my drink, close the place, and go home. Scout’s honor.”
Rob grinned, hugging her in his turn. “Says the former Goth.”
“Oh well, Goth’s honor then. Come on, off with you now.” Jeanne nudged him toward the door.
“What about you, Mat? Need a lift to your dad’s place?” Rob asked.
“No, thanks—I’ll walk. Besides, I won’t leave as long as there’s a drop left in here.” He pointed to the last bottle of Château-Grillet.
Jeanne raised her brows. Why wasn’t Mat leaving with Lena and Rob? He’d just told her he had a girlfriend who meant the world to him. This was very confusing.
After Lena and Rob left, Mat picked up the bottle. “Shall we finish it?”
She held her glass for him to fill. Her cheeks felt warm, and all her muscles were blissfully relaxed.
“I’ve often wondered if you’d changed over the past three years,” Mat said.
“And?”
“Well, the hair’s no longer blue and the lip piercing’s gone. But other than that, you’re the same.”
As he spoke, his deep, velvety baritone enveloped her, caressed her, added depth to the scorching heat of his gaze. They sat a good two feet from each other, and yet she felt as though he was stroking her. Her skin prickled and a heavy awareness began to build in the pit of her stomach.
“You, on the other hand, are thoroughly transformed,” she said.
“I guess I’m one of those guys whose puberty is so delayed it kicks in at twenty-five.”
She shook her head, summoning her no-nonsense persona. “OK, I can buy some of it. The hair is easy to crop. The muscles—I suppose you took to weight lifting?”
He nodded.
“And this whole”—she pointed at his chest—“Vikingy virility thing . . . hormonal change?”
The corner of his mouth quirked. “Must be. By the way, a lot of people in Normandy have Viking ancestry.”
“OK. But what about the eyes? Plastic surgery?”
“What do you mean?” He gave her a perplexed look. “Why would I need plastic surgery on my eyes?”
“Your eyes used to make me think of a . . . toad.”
He frowned for a second, and then burst into laughter.
“It wasn’t my eyes; it was my cheap eyeglasses. I’m farsighted, which means I need a plus prescription.” He pointed to his elegant glasses. “These ones are thinner and hi-tech, so they don’t magnify my eyes. See?” He drew closer until his face was only a few inches from hers.
Jeanne told herself to draw back, but her body refused to obey. She glanced at his eyes as he had requested and tumbled headlong into their stormy depths. Her breath caught in her throat, and she quivered as her body began to ache for his kiss, for his touch—for any form of physical contact with him.
How weird to burn like this for someone I barely noticed three years ago.
Someone who was no longer free.
Mat’s world spun like a top, round and round, faster and faster, until it concentrated into a single spot. . . which happened to be a luscious female mouth. Jeanne’s mouth. In a last bid for sanity, he reminded himself that he wasn’t a philanderer, that he’d never looked at another woman since he’d been with Cécile. But when the tip of Jeanne’s tongue darted to moisten her lips, he didn’t stand a chance.
The crush he’d thought long gone was alive and kicking.
Right where it hurt.
A primal hunger surged in him, thickening the blood in his veins, assaulting his senses and robbing him of his free will. There was no fighting it.
As if hypnotized, he brought his hand to Jeanne’s face and traced his thumb across her lower lip. He moved slowly, pressing lightly enough not to hurt her, but with sufficient force to miss nothing of the texture, warmth, and fullness of her lip.
Her chest heaved as she closed her eyes.
“God,” he rasped, hardly recognizing his own voice. “You have no idea how often I’ve dreamed of doing this. I’m crazy about your lips, Jeanne. Even without the piercing.”
When his thumb reached the corner of her mouth, he trailed it across her upper lip, savoring every sensation and growing so aroused it hurt. It was much too soon when he completed the circle, but no force on Earth could make him break the contact or make him stop touching her. His thumb slid down to her chin, his palm cupping her cheek. Oh, the sweetness of her, the long-forbidden treat he was finally about to sample. It was heavenly. It made him want more.
His gaze traveled down her graceful neck framed by auburn hair, to her shoulders. He bent down and began to cover them in hot kisses as his hands wandered across her back, bared by the figure-hugging dress she wore. And what a clever dress it was—specially designed to drive him out of his mind. Its skirt reached the middle of her thighs, revealing most of her shapely legs. Its seemingly demure neckline skimmed her collarbone and then plunged in the back, descending all the way down to the two sweet dimples in the small of her back. Which was exactly where his hand was going. . . until she opened her eyes and pulled back.
“This is wrong,” she said.
He stared at her, disoriented.
She sighed. “I’ve been here before, Mat, and I got burned. I can’t . . . I won’t . . . fool around with a man who’s taken.”
He swallowed hard and released her. As his heartbeat slowed and his breathing evened out, his speech capacity returned.
And so did reason.
“You’re right. I’m so sorry, Jeanne.”
“I’m sorry, too,” she whispered.
He gave her another long look. “Let me walk you home.”
She shook her head. “I live five blocks down the street. Really . . . Just go.”
She spun around and rushed away, leaving him no choice but to grab his jacket and bolt out the door.
~~~
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About the Author
Alix Nichols is an unapologetic caffeine addict and a longtime fan of Mr. Darcy, especially in his Colin Firth incarnation. She is a Kindle Scout and Dante Rossetti Award winning author of critically acclaimed romantic comedies.
At the age of six, she released her first rom com. It featured highly creative spelling on a dozen pages stitched together and bound in velvet paper.
Decades later, she still loves the romance genre. Her spelling has improved (somewhat), and her books have made Amazon bestseller lists, climbing as high as #1. She lives in France with her family and their almost-human dog.
Connect with her online:
Blog: http://www.alixnichols.com
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Author’s Note
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Alix
