Page 43 of The Last Kiss

He steps up close, uncaring of the people weaving around us and my breath snatches in my throat, puffing out as a little gust of air. “You left without saying goodbye.”

I stare up at him, eyes roving over the face that’s a perfect landscape of smooth, olive skin and dark, expressive eyebrows. I want to charter the land for my own.

Shaking my head, I try to lose my random thoughts.

Keep it together, Jules, we’ve fallen down this rabbit hole before.

“Ma petite Juliette, I have thought of you often.”

Wheeeee, down the rabbit hole I go.

“You have?”

“Oui, of course.” He rubs at his jaw. “Too often, I think.” His smile is rueful and utterly time stopping. Not heart stopping, but time itself.

He’s thought of me too? B-list Porno or Pornhub?

In no hurry to go anywhere, his broad back acts like a boulder parting the sea of evening commuters. His lips curve into a cheeky grin that gives birth to a dimple I didn’t know existed.

Leaning down to my ear, he brushes his lips against my earlobe. Right here in the middle of Waterloo train station—the man has no boundaries at all. I shiver, remembering all too well his lack of boundaries and where that leads. “I thought I might have done something wrong,” his finger trails my cheek, “but I see your blush and know that cannot be the case.”

Ooh, this guy is smooth. So smooth.

“Well…” I try to think of a suitable answer for why I ran away from him, stealing into the dawn like a thief, but I can’t. He chuckles and it echoes straight through me, lancing my core, making Pornoland all the more desirable. I need a season pass, make no mistake.

“Do you have plans?”

I look up at his question.

“No,’ I blurt, but then pull myself together. “But I can’t be doing.” I point between us. “Again.”

He laughs, throwing his head back. Angels weep. “I had in mind a drink.”

My face begins to burn. “Drink makes sense.” And yes, I do want a drink with him, Pornoland hasn’t portrayed his face quite right. Today he has a slight stubble on his chin, there’s a faint shadowing under his eyes.

“You look tired,” I state. His gaze washes over me.

“And so do you.”

Well, that’s to the point, but then so was I, I guess. “You’re in London again?”

I don’t know why this fact gives me a little warm burst in the chest area. The man’s beautiful, too beautiful, but he was also a one-night stand which doesn’t hold any future. I don’t hold any future.

The stark reality hollows me out like a scoop of ice cream falling from a spoon.

“So sad still, ma petite,” he murmurs in my ear and I tremble down to my toes. Why does he turn up on days when the very worst has happened?

Maybe that’s his thing. He’s a distraction from the end of all things.

“What are you doing at Waterloo?”

“Heading home.” He sighs and I sigh with him as he runs a hand through his hair. His suit, grey this time, is impeccably cut, as sharp as a knife edge. His overcoat black, a dark green scarf loosely hangs around his neck.

He looks like an investment banker, not the maker of cheese.

But then I suppose cheese is a French thing. Maybe they do it differently there.

“What are you thinking of?” His smile teases the edge of his mouth.