Page 23 of Frenched (Frenched 1)
“And everyone gets along?”
He shrugged. “Well enough.”
“Where’s your dad now?”
“He works as a studio musician in New York, but he also teaches college classes on music theory.”
I nodded slowly. “Wow. You had quite a childhood. Mine’s boring by comparison.”
“Try me.”
“Well, Mom was a legal secretary, Dad was a lawyer, I was an oopsie. They married but it didn’t work out, and I did the back and forth thing until I graduated from high school. Now my dad is married to another attorney and they have three little girls, and my mom is married to a cardiac surgeon. They live in Chicago, which is a good place for her.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because it’s three hundred miles from me.”
He smiled. “You don’t get along?”
“Well enough, I suppose. But you know what?” I drained the last drop of wine in my glass. “Let’s not talk about her. She stresses me out, and I am feeling amazingly good about life right now.”
He poured the remains of the bottle into our glasses. “Good wine will do that for you.”
“It’s not just the wine.”
Shit, did I say that out loud?
Lucas froze for a moment, eyes locked on mine, the wine bottle still suspended above the table. Finally he set it down. “Oh?”
Heat rushed my face, but I didn’t look away. “Yes. Lucas, this is the best day I’ve had in a long time. In fact, I’d forgotten what it was like to feel this way.”
“What way?”
I lifted my shoulders. “Happy. Carefree. Just…excited about what might come next, even though I have no idea what it will be.”
“In life or in Paris?”
I smiled. “Both.”
Triumph danced in his eyes. “So you’re staying.”
“I’m staying. But!” I held up one finger. “I still want the rest of my day with you as tour guide.”
“I’m all yours.”
Are you?
I watched him bring the rim of the glass to his lips and drink, and I imagined the wine slipping into his mouth, between his teeth, sliding over his tongue. The image was so erotic I squeezed my thighs together against the gush of arousal between my legs.
Whoa, Nelly.
Picking up my own glass, I looked out the window and sipped, trying to recall the last time I’d been really good and hot before even being touched. I used to get excited thinking about Tucker’s good looks and hard body, but I’d learned pretty quickly he wasn’t quite the sexual dynamo his reputation made him out to be. My gut feeling was that he’d had a lot of one-nighters with girls who didn’t come back for seconds, and that suited him just fine. It meant he never had to get to know anyone sexually, really spend time learning what they wanted, what they needed, what they liked.
Not that he’d done that with me either.
Frowning, I watched a couple kiss before parting on the sidewalk outside. I’d tried—I’d really tried—to be the kind of woman a man desired in bed. I made it perfectly clear I was willing to try different things—not only willing but interested—and I offered myself in every way, but he just wasn’t interested in changing his routine. Because it worked for him, every time.
What an asshole. Why did I ever think he was good enough?
