Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 134706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
I smirk at his ridiculous statement.
“On any stage,” he whispers as his eyes hold mine.
An unwelcome flutter happens in my stomach.
The air between us is electric, and I know that I shouldn’t be feeling this . . . whatever this is . . . but when he says sweet things, I can’t help but feel something in my chest.
All day we have laughed and held hands and carried on like kids in love.
I’m not sure that Tristan Miles is as hard as I once thought he was.
“And the answer was no,” he says softly.
“To what?” I’m confused as to what he’s talking about.
“I don’t remember if I dated any beautiful women.”
I frown.
“Because,” he whispers as his eyes drop to my lips, “at this moment, all I can think about . . . is you.”
My heart beats faster as we stare at each other, and I want to go around to his side of the table and take him into my arms and kiss him.
But I can’t.
I can’t imagine that this is more than it is, that his pretty words are more than just pretty words. Because he’s a fantasy man, and we can’t be anything more than a weekend away. Our lives are too different—we . . . are too different.
I know that.
“What’s going to happen tonight when everyone sees me naked on the stage at the Moulin Rouge?” I ask.
“I’ll be fighting the men off.” He chuckles. “Probably the women too.”
I giggle and pick up my wine. I hold my glass out and clink it with his.
“To naked brawling,” I whisper.
His eyes twinkle with a certain something. “Naked anything, where you’re concerned.”
This poor, deluded man. Since when did cellulite and stretch marks become hot? I bet he never thought he would see the day. I giggle. “You must be sick of seeing me naked, Mr. Miles.”
“Anderson, I’m just getting started.”
We walk out through the departure lounge of the private part of the airport. Tristan is wheeling both of our suitcases behind him, and we walk in through large glass doors from the tarmac. One lone lady is checking and stamping passports to let us into the country. “Hello, Mr. Miles.” She smiles.
Jeez, he flies so much that the staff all know him.
“Hello, Margarete,” he says. “Where’s Boris?”
“On day shift today.”
She opens his passport. “How was Paris?”
“Parfaite.” He smiles.
She giggles on cue, and I smirk over at him.
Flirt.
She stamps our passports, and we look into the eye-scanner thingy.
This is so much more civilized than standing in the queue for an hour.
“Goodbye, Margarete,” he says as he pulls our two suitcases through another huge door. When we walk out, I look around, disoriented. Oh, we are in the foyer of the airport. I never knew that these doors into this private part of the airport were even here.
“Where are you parked?” Tristan asks.
“Over in long term, level one.”
“Okay, I’ll just drop my bag at the car and walk you up.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
We walk out through the front doors, and he walks to the left with our two suitcases and stops at a black limo. The driver gets out. “Hey, Tris,” he says.
I stop on the spot, shocked. He has a limo . . . what the heck?
“This is Claire,” he says to introduce me. “This is Calvin.”
“Hello.” He smiles.
I give a weak wave.
Calvin grabs his suitcase, and Tristan takes my hand. We walk toward level one.
“I can wheel my suitcase.”
“Let me act like a gentleman, please,” he says as he walks.
“You have a limo?” I frown.
He shrugs, as if it’s no big deal. “Miles Media has limos. It’s not personally mine.”
I’m suddenly reminded of who he is. A Miles.
We walk for a while, and I feel anxious. I don’t want to let him go, but I know I have to. I went to France to fill my well—I got the ocean instead.
Tristan Miles is beautiful, smart, and witty, and he makes me laugh, which is not an easy feat, and that’s just on top of the amazing sex. But more than that, he makes me feel like I’m the most beautiful woman in the world. Never once, not even for a second, did I feel insecure about my body. He constantly had his arm around me or was holding my hand, kissing me. Listening to everything I said and giving me great conversation. I think we talked the entire weekend; never once did it feel forced or uncomfortable.
He’s going.
I exhale as reality begins to seep through my bones. The man I was away with doesn’t really exist. He is a very small piece of who Tristan Miles is. Sadly, my first instincts are in fact his reality, and even though we’ve had an amazing time together . . .
It ends here.
I can’t even fathom being with someone like him long term.