Page 74 of Sinful Desires
I imagined him standing there with his arms crossed, spine straight, head held high.
Heat bled down my neck. Not from embarrassment.No, this was different. This was heat that made my thighs press together under the table.
I reached for a piece of toast, my fingers trembling against the crust. I swore I could hear my heartbeat in my ears.
“Or don’t,” my mother added with a nervous laugh, scratching the side of her neck like she could feel the tension crawling over her skin too. “Tell us, Mister LeRoy, where in France are you from? I spent three years there during university, an exchange program. I’m quite familiar with the country.”
“Nice, ma’am.” His voice roughly caressed my spine.
“Ah, the Queen of the Riviera,” she said with a practiced little smile. “Such a beautiful city. So, you grew up in the south, then. By the sea. The lavender fields.”
I bit into my toast. Dry. Dull. Completely useless. But better than letting my brain spiral over the image of a young Théo running barefoot on the sand, probably brooding by age six and breaking hearts before he could spell the word.
Her eyes flicked to me. “That’s Scarlett’s favorite flower, you know. When she was younger, she?—”
“Mom, please.”
“Alright.Mon français n’est pas parfait, mais je me débrouille,” she said with a smile, then glanced at Théo. “Si jamais Scarlett fait des?…” She frowned. “What’s the word again? Ah,des bêtises! Vous me le direz, capisce?”
Her French was broken, her American accent thicker than mine, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek not to laugh.
So much for three years in Paris.
“Compris, madame.” His French came out low and clean.
I think we all breathed out a little when he said it, me most of all.
He almost never spoke French. I’d only heard it in passing—a muttered curse, something low when he thought no one was listening.
And thank God for that, because if he spoke it daily, I’d have no defense. My clothes would be gone in under five minutes. One word at a time. One“viens ici”and I’d be on my knees, no hesitation. I’d let him whisper it against my neck, into my mouth, maybe right when he?—
“Scarlett.”
I blinked. Everyone at the table was staring. My father looked annoyed. My mother was confused. Kiara was smiling like she knew every thought I’d just had.
“Still drunk from last night?” she said, not even trying to whisper.
I elbowed her and grabbed my glass of water, gulping like hydration could erase the mental image of Théo whispering in French while ruining me slowly.
“Sorry,” I said, not looking at anyone. “You were saying?”
“Iwas saying,” my father repeated, looking back at Théo, “that you owe Mister LeRoy an apology. He spent his holiday keeping you in line instead of being with his family.”
“I don’t have family in France, sir.”
My brow lifted. I could’ve sworn he said he was flying back to see them.
“I had business there,” he added. “It can wait.”
“Aw,” my mother said, one hand on her heart like someone had just told her the family dog died.“Poor you. You must feelsoalone.”
Kiara and I looked at each other. Same thought. Same eye roll.
“I don’t.”
Verbal minimalism at its finest.
The silence that followed said enough.
