Page 101 of The Girlfriend Zone

“That’s not an excuse,” I say, but I’m already smiling as I carry her down the stairs.

“I know. I’m sorry,” he says, a smile in his voice. “Butje ne regrette rien.”

He’s speaking French. I don’t know the language, but I can figure it out. “You regret nothing?”

“Yep.”

He sounds delightfully smug. And the memory of yesterday flickers before my eyes, hot and bright. Pleasure curls in my belly, a reminder of what he did to me.

I’m supposed to be moving on. Resetting. Yet I have no regrets either. “Same here,” I admit as I set Bippity on the couch with the others.

“Yeah?” he asks, sounding…happy.

“Even though you’re the worst.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says smoothly.

I’m too intrigued by his promise to let it go, though I should. I’m sure I should. Instead, I ask, “How?”

Even with the noise of the Canadian city, I can hear a low rumble in his voice—god bless deep sounds. Then he says, “You could let me taste you properly.”

I gasp, faux annoyed, but really, I’m turned on. “We’re not supposed to do that,” I say, but it sounds like the lady doth protest too much.

“You don’t sound mad,” he observes.

“Iwasmad. I thought I was a terrible dog-sitter,” I say, trying to steer the conversation back to safer territory.

“You’re doing great,” he reassures me, dropping the flirting. “That was my fault.”

“Next time, leave instructions for the escape artist,” I say, not truly annoyed anymore.

“I will,” he promises. “I was distracted yesterday. But that’s on me. I should have given you a heads-up about her tricks. I’m glad you called, though, even though I was about to call you.”

“Spy,” I mutter,though a part of me likes how much he was paying attention.

“I only used my dog-cam for good,” he says, then pauses. “Anyway…I’m glad you called because it’s good to hear your voice.”

I told myself I was resetting, moving on. But now, all I want is to talk to him. “How’s Montreal?”

“J’aime cette ville,” he says.

“I love it here?” I ask.

“I love this city, so close enough.”

“And do you speak French?”

“Only enough to be dangerous.”

“How did you learn it?” I ask. “Or if I go into your library, will I find books written in French?”

He laughs. “I’m not that good. I read in English, but I know enough to get by since I went to McGill.”

Oh, right. “I remember that.”

“You remember it?”

“I looked up your bio. After I met you,” I admit.

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