“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 theend 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.