Page 53 of The Billionaire's Wife

I closed my suitcase and lifted it down off the bed, then wheeled it behind me as I made my way back to the living room. “Tristan?”

“I’m in here.”

I turned.

Tristan leaned on the frame of his bedroom door. “You’re ready?”

I winced. “Kind of. I need to go shopping. I really just have jeans.”

“Jeans are good.”

I scowled. “Where are we staying?”

“That’s a surprise.” He crossed his arms.

I tried to ignore just how good he looked, leaning casually in the doorway like some kind of GQ model. “But it’s fancy, right? I bet everything you’ve arranged is fancy.”

It took him a moment, but finally he inclined his head slightly. “Maybe.”

“So yeah, jeans aren’t going to cut it.” I rubbed my head. I had some money—and now that the Ortegas knew where I was, it probably didn’t matter if I spent it. “So. Where’s the nearest Walmart?”

Tristan laughed. “You’re going to find fancy for Paris in Walmart?”

That was a point. My shoulders slumped. “Probably not.”

“Why don’t we go shopping in Paris?”

“Tristan.” I shook my head. “I can’t afford that.”

“I can.”

“But—”

He held up a hand, then pushed off the doorway and closed the distance between us.

My breath caught. I took a deep breath and instantly regretted it as his scent filled me. The air between us seemed charged and warm.

He lowered his head so our eyes were level and his voice was quiet. “Let me do this for you. Let me give you Paris.”

I looked away, unable—maybe even unwilling—to process the emotions that had tears welling in my eyes.

“Faith.”

I closed my eyes.

Tristan’s hands curled gently around my arms. He leaned in and his arms slid around me. He didn’t squeeze. In fact, his touch was almost feather-light. And it couldn’t have been more potent.

I burrowed my face into his chest and my arms wrapped around his waist without conscious thought. Somewhere in the back of my mind, there was a little click and for the briefest moment, everything made sense.

I sniffled.

“Hey.” Tristan eased back and tipped my chin up with one finger. Concern filled his eyes. “Don’t cry.”

I swiped at the tears. “I can’t help it. I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

“But I deserve you.”

The way he said it, left no room for misinterpretation. He didn’t feel I was some kind of penance. He saw me as a prize.

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