Page 41 of The Finish Line

“Want me to bag this up for you?”

She shamelessly eye-fucks him before speaking. “That . . . would be nice, thank you . . . ?”

“Tobias. Avec plaisir, salope.” With pleasure, bitch.

It’s all I can do to stifle my laugh.

“Oh, that’s beautiful. French?”

“Yes. Sorry, I forget my English sometimes,” he drawls out, playing innocent foreigner. For a few seconds, I get lost in the sight of him in pedestrian clothes, standing in the middle of my café. Jutting his chin, he gestures over my shoulder with the knowing upturn of his lips as Travis rings the bell behind me. “Order up, boss.”

I narrow my eyes. “I’m aware, Frenchman. When you’re done here, table three and six need bussing as well.”

“As you wish,” he concedes.

Turning to grab the order, I’m stopped by the heat in his voice. “Oh, Cecelia?”

I glance over my shoulder to see the smolder in his eyes as obnoxious laughter and cafeteria level noise sounds around us both. “Yes?”

“Je n’aime pas me réveiller sans toi. Je préférerais de loin me réveiller en toi.” I don’t like waking up without you. I would much rather wake up inside you.

“There goes that French tongue again,” the woman scolds. “You know it’s rude to say things that others can’t understand.”

Ignoring the self-important bitch, he keeps his focus on me.

“Tu as l’air un peu stressée. Je peux t’aider à te détendre. Avec ma langue, et ta chatte.” You’re looking a little stressed. I can help you relax. With my tongue, and your pussy.

Lips parting, I do my best to conceal my shock. “As-tu perdu la tête?” Have you lost your mind?

“Pas ce que tu avais en tête? Après tu décideras où ira ma langue.” Not what you had in mind? Then you will decide where my tongue will go.

“We can discuss this at ho—”

“So, if you’ll just bag that up,” the woman interrupts, hating that I’ve stolen her thunder.

Her little boy, who looks to be around seven or eight, climbs out of the booth, watching our exchange with interest. Tobias leans down and whispers to him, and he giggles before he speaks up, mimicking Tobias perfectly. “Le pleck, le spit.”

I toss my head back and laugh. Was it so long ago I was mimicking him the same way poolside at my father’s house? Then we were at odds, fighting our attraction, denying our chemistry, the tension just as thick. When we were apart, it seemed like an eternity ago, but when he’s this close, it doesn’t feel that way.

“Tu m’as manqué, Mon Trésor.” I’ve missed you, my treasure. The sincerity in his tone combined with the look in his eyes has my heart galloping, and visions swirling of the days he barely made it out of his Jag in my father’s driveway before I was in his arms and our lips were colliding. A collection of days and weeks when our time was stolen, a time where we freed ourselves to openly love each other without uttering the words. A plate shatters behind me, breaking our spell.

“Did you just teach my son some sort of French curse?”

Without answering, patience thinning, Tobias grabs the loaded plate from her table. “I’ll get this taken care of.”

She eyes me suspiciously as he walks past. “That English seems to come and go so conveniently.”

“Funny how that works,” I agree, sauntering off and following Tobias through the double doors, zeroed in on his ass when I notice the label on his jeans. “Wranglers?” I can’t help my laugh. “Planning on riding bulls anytime soon?”

“This is all they had in my size,” he explains in defense as he heads into the kitchen. “Not much to choose from around here.”

“You can’t do that.” I change the subject.

“Why should we let all that French you learned go to waste?”

“Not funny.”

“I disagree,” he says icily, dumping the contents of the woman’s plate into a box.

---