Page 57 of One Time in Paris
The soulless existence of making money. Being a businessman. Coming home to an empty house and takeaway.
“What’s home to you, Aiden? What does it look like? More importantly, who’s there waiting for you?”
John’s words might have been a tad presumptuous, but they had been on his mind since Aiden heard them.Who’s waiting for you?
The water shut off and the slide of a shower curtain told him that Isla was getting out.
Time crawled as he waited for her to dress and open that door. And as he stared at it, he felt himself losing the will to tell her—put it off just a little longer. He’d keep coming back here, telling himself thathe’d just get it over with next time. Give himself another excuse to see her.
The door opened, and Aiden jerked his chin up as she sauntered out, her hair wet and combed, wearing a nightshirt and matching shorts.
God, she’s beautiful. How did I never see it before?
Or maybe he had and he’d ignored it becausethatwould be crossing the line. Of course, they’d torpedoed that line in Vegas.
Aiden drew a sharp breath and held her gaze. “I need to tell you something and it can’t wait.”
He hesitated for one last, useless second.
Then he forced the words out.
“We’re married, Isla.”
20
ISLA
The silencebetween Aiden and Isla stretched as thin as wire.
For a second, she thought she’d heard him wrong.
But her ears rang, and she blinked slowly, looking at the ridiculously gorgeous man in her hotel room. The room tilted—just slightly—as her lungs squeezed tight.Married. To Aiden Camden.
What?
In the shower, she’d been caught between wanting to take her time and racing back to him. Not that she should be dying to race back to him. But when she’d seen him tonight grabbing Tomas, stepping in to defend her like he had, it had done something to her.
Her goddamned panties had practically melted.
And that wasn’t supposed to happen with Aiden. She wasn’t supposed to want him. He wasn’t supposed to make her wet. His lack of a text message wasn’t supposed to make her feel needy and ignored.
She’d been miserable all weekend, imagining him in New York with Lola. And that had been more telling than anything else.
But now that she’d found out that she’d let her assumptions and imagination get the best of her, she was more aware than ever of his effect on her.
She wasn’t supposed to be standing in the shower, thinking about him just steps away. About how they’d be crawling into bed together. About how she’d offered in the first place—because she’d wanted him to say yes.
“Isla?”
His voice brought her back to his words. How long had she been standing there, staring at him with a vacant expression?
Then she laughed.
A nervous laugh, filled with disbelief and false hilarity.
It bubbled up her windpipe, choking from her throat. “That’s impossible,” she managed.
Aiden knelt beside a laptop bag, then pulled out an envelope. Crossing the space toward her, he held out a paper. “This came in the mail to my office in London.”
