Page 82 of Angel Eyes

Celine Blanchet. Co-Editor-in-Chief, La Femme.

Holy crap. She was an editor-in-chief?

“Don’t worry,” she said, apparently mistaking my shock for discomfort. “I won’t use anything you’ve written without your permission. Our magazine might not be as established as La Nouvelle Revue Française, but we are carving out our place in the market. Since La Femme is a digital-only publication, we can produce content faster than some of the larger print magazines. Undoubtedly, that is why our readership has tripled in the last year alone. We’re looking for new contributors, so if you ever have any interest in doing a weekly column or something similar, keep us in mind.”

Weekly column? I glanced over at Gabriel who was now chatting with James, his hand still wrapped securely around mine.

Gabriel.

After the dinner party, I’d told myself I wanted clarity on where things stood between us, a definitive line in the sand. But now that line was more blurred than ever. Instead of reestablishing boundaries, I was teetering on the precipice of something huge, something life-changing.

And I was one breath away from toppling over the edge.

“Juliet?” I blinked at the sound of Gabriel’s voice. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” I croaked, my heart beating in the back of my throat. “I just need some air.”

Pushing my chair back, I hurried toward the exit, pressing a hand to my chest and praying I hadn’t just fallen head over heels for Gabriel Beaumont.

Twenty-Eight

Juliet

Iducked into the crisp night, entering a courtyard bathed in low lamplight and surrounded by a line of hedgerows. The moon hung low in the sky, and I set off at a brisk pace toward the far end.

An unexpected sob worked its way up my throat, and I pressed a hand to my mouth, catching it before the sound could escape.

So what if Gabriel had brought me to a stunning mansion to wine and dine with Parisian high society, all while supporting a good cause? So what if he’d just helped me make professional inroads by introducing me to a female editor-in-chief? It didn’t change anything—didn’t change the fact that he didn’t want a relationship.

I fumbled for a tissue, only to remember I left my purse inside. I sniffed instead, pressing the heels of my hands beneath my eyes to staunch the liquid heat threatening to spill over.

Buck up, Chandler.

If I could power through a three-hour call with opposing counsel, I could dry my face and make it through the rest of this dinner. Before I could decide on whether to return to the dining room or let myself have a good cry first, I heard footsteps.

“Juliet.”

I sensed him without turning around, his hand gentle on my elbow.

Don’t fall prey to the narrative in your mind without having an honest conversation.

Cristian was right. I was being a coward, and I was tired of it. Whether or not this was destined to end in heartbreak, I needed to understand once and for all if Gabriel and I were just friends or if we had the potential to be something more.

I turned to him, my eyes colliding with those twin pools of sapphire. “Gabriel, why did you bring me here tonight?”

He searched my face. “Because I know how important your writing is to you. And even though I have no doubt you’ll be a success, I want you to know you have options. No matter what happens with the NRF competition, I want you to find what you are seeking.”

“But why? What does it all mean? For … for us.”

His brows softened, his lips parting in the half-light as he consumed the remaining space between us.

“It means,” he said, eyes falling to my mouth, “that we have a lot to talk about, angel.”

In the space of a breath, he slanted his mouth hard over mine, kissing me like he would die if he didn’t, like his only reason for breathing air was to share it with me. I whimpered, parting my lips to taste more of him, and his tongue brushed against mine as his hand slid to the nape of my neck. He drew me closer, the hard planes of his chest pressing against the swell of my breasts, and heat bloomed in every corner of my body when I felt him stiffening against me.

“Juliet,” he said, his voice full of gravel. “I promised not to do this again, not until …” He didn’t finish his sentence, his conflicted eyes boring into mine. I stared back beneath heavy lids, my pulse scattering as his fingers painted a path down my spine.

If there was ever a moment for honesty, now would be it. But our lips were already gravitating toward each other again, our breaths tangling.

---