Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 32532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 163(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 163(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
I mean...what else is there to do?
I have no idea what my face is saying right now, but I’m sure it’s something he doesn’t need to know.
“You do not need to hide anything from me, Mira.”
“I beg to differ.”
“I beg to differ back.”
He steps away before I can stop him, and he’s cupping my chin, and...sigh. The moment his gaze captures mine, I’m done for.
“We must never have secrets from each other. C’est clair?”
He’s already taking my hand as he speaks, and all I can do is nod. Le sigh. Those blue eyes of his are a killer.
Zacharie insists on walking me back to my dorm, and I can’t help stealing glances at him every so often, wondering if this is really happening. Life has been so crazy lately—huh?
I finally notice the way other students have been staring and whispering, and I’m not sure what I should do or how I should feel about it.
Two girls on a nearby bench have their phones out, not even trying to be subtle about taking photos. A group of guys by the fountain are elbowing each other and pointing.
“Is that—”
“Oh my gosh, I think it’s—”
“—one of those low-key billionaires, you know the ones who—”
“He’s so hot, what the—”
“Who’s the girl with him?”
My face flames.
Right.
I forgot.
In Southern California, he’s famous. One of the homegrown billionaires, the society pages call him. Self-made. Mysterious. The kind of man whose face ends up on magazine covers with headlines like “The Eligible Bachelors of Los Angeles” or “California’s Most Secretive Billionaires.”
And he’s holding my hand.
In public.
Where people can see.
A jogger on the phone nearly barrels into me, but Zacharie’s quick reflexes have him moving to his other side, and all while making sure he doesn’t injure my side.
“Um,” I manage. “People are staring.”
“C’est le cas.” So they are.
“And they’re taking pictures.”
“En effet.” Indeed.
“Doesn’t that...bother you?”
“Seulement si cela vous dérange.” Only if it bothers you.
Well...
If there’s one thing that bothers me right now, then that would be him.
Or rather him speaking in French.
Because I think he’s figured out that hearing him speak in his native language does strange things to my heart, and if he keeps this up—
The sound of my phone ringing is exactly what I need.
A distraction to get my heart to calm down and stop racing like it’s training for a marathon, and oh!
The fact that it’s Dane calling again is even better.
Zacharie’s gaze narrows when he sees Dane’s name on the screen. “I still don’t want you to answer—”
I pretend not to hear him say that as I answer the call.
But the voice on the other end isn’t Dane.
And the next words I hear have the phone slipping out of my grasp.
I watch it fall in slow motion, tumbling end over end, but Zacharie’s hand darts out and catches it before it hits the ground.
“What’s wrong?” His voice is sharp. Alert. All traces of warmth replaced by something hard and focused. “Mira. What happened?”
“D-Dane...”
“What is it?”
“That was the hospital,” I hear myself say. “Dane was shot.”
Chapter Ten
ZACHARIE TAKES CHARGE of Dane’s confinement the way he took command during Trina’s wake. And this time, I’m grateful for it...because life keeps getting crazier by the second, like a rollercoaster ride that only slows down when Zacharie is around. He’s like the guy in the control booth as he keeps my roller coaster of a life from falling off the rails. But he’s also seated next to me inside the car, holding my hand, reminding me to breathe, or just telling me to look into his eyes so I’ll know I’m safe.
And I do know that.
But Dane, though...
I know this is stupid, but why does it feel like everyone around me is either dead or almost dead?
The hospital smells like antiseptic and panic, and I don’t know which one is making my head spin more. Voices overlap, doctors, nurses, and someone crying somewhere down the hall, while the fluorescent lights seem like they’re trying to burn everything clean, including my thoughts.
Dane is alive.
I keep telling myself that.
Alive is good. Alive is enough. Alive should be enough.
“He’s in surgery,” someone says. A nurse, I think. Or maybe a doctor. I nod like I understand what that means, like I know how long it will take, like I know what comes after.
Zacharie understands.
He always does.
He speaks quietly to the staff, his tone calm but unyielding, the kind of voice people listen to without realizing they’ve already decided to obey. Names are exchanged. Credentials verified. Orders rerouted. Security doubled.
I don’t hear the words themselves so much as I feel the shift, like the room inhales and then exhales all at once.
Control booth engaged.
Zacharie doesn’t ask me what I want. He doesn’t need to. He positions me in a chair near the wall, not too close to the doors, not too far from the nurses’ station. Someone brings me water. Someone else brings me a blanket I don’t remember asking for.