Page 96 of Jude

It was a Corner Junior Suite, elevated on the third floor, offering an unobstructed view of the designer-strung Champs-Élysées below and dripping with Belle Époque-inspired eye candy.

Jude set my suitcase on a velvet bench near the entrance.

‘Your room is through the double doors on the left. Mine is on the other side of the living area. You’ll have total privacy.’

When I opened my mouth to say thank you, he lifted a finger to my lips.

‘Woman, just enjoy it,’ he growled and stalked away with a wry smile.

I huffed, then walked into my assigned room.

As my feet sank into a thick, hand-woven rug, I gasped as my eyes landed on a stunning, vintage roll-top gold and black bathtub.

It sat right in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

‘Jude, come look at this,’ I called out, my voice echoing off the high ceilings.

He strolled into my space, stopping just behind me as I pushed the sheer curtains aside.

Below us, the famous avenue stretched out like a ribbon of diamonds.

‘Ooh là là,’ I murmured, mimicking the French phrase the concierge used downstairs earlier, a genuine laugh bubbling up from my throat.

Jude let out a rough, amused huff from deep in his chest.

Leaning on the window casing, he gazed down at the bustling night street, then back at my face.

‘Yeah. It’s out of this world, babe. Go ahead and draw a hot bath in that tub. You’ve earned the rest after that grueling flight.’

The following day, the Accor Arena loomed like an immense blue metallic web, a steel, glass-and-grass pyramid on the edge of the Seine.

Its sloping exterior walls in a bold design, covered in thick patches of manicured lawn, made a strong imprint upon the panorama of the city.

Inside, the cavernous bowl could hold over twenty thousand screaming fans.

The scale of the stadium was enormous, hitting me the second the industrial lift doors slid open.

Earlier, unable to rest and too restless to stay inside the suite, I asked Jude if I could tag along to the band’s bump-in.

‘I want to see how your team operates and perhaps lend a hand,’ I told him. ‘Besides, I’ve got zero plans.’

He eyed me over the rim of his coffee cup, his lips twitching.

‘As long as you don’t get in the way or try to handle the heavy lifting. The band always pitches in, and it’s a grind.’

‘Hard work doesn’t scare me, my friend,’ I shot back.

Our eyes locked, and the ratcheting feeling between us simmered.

I sensed his walls coming down, day by day.

If anything, the magnetic pull between us was melting his defenses.

Hell, the yearning to slide into his arms and chase that same wild energy we shared weeks ago was getting impossible to resist.

Now, at the arena, he pressed a quick kiss to my temple by the elevator and winked.

‘Make yourself useful, babe. Working FOH at a Six Sinner’s concert is an experience many would die for. Find a crew lead and muck in. All those TT-worthy concert moments, where the lighting hits rocks, and the venue acoustics make you transcend yourself? It’s all thanks to our crew working like mad to give our fans the experience of a lifetime.’