Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
“I did not wince.”
“You absolutely winced.”
I lean forward, lowering my voice. “If I admit to wincing, will you stop bringing it up?”
“Never.”
“Then I deny everything.”
She laughs softly and takes a bite of her duck. I watch the way her eyes close briefly in appreciation.
She sets her fork down slowly, and I hold her gaze. Reaching across the table, I brush my thumb lightly against her wrist.
“You’re beautiful, Jo Button.”
Outside, the lights of the Eiffel Tower flicker in the distance. Inside the restaurant, Jo Button’s cheeks are flushed from wine, argument, and art. Her eyes are bright and tantalizing.
“I’ll admit something,” I say.
She arches a brow. “A confession?”
“Yes.”
“Go on.”
“I spent less time admiring the sculptures than I implied.”
Her lips curve knowingly. “That’s hardly a confession.”
“I was watching you,” I finish, looking into her eyes as I say it. She doesn’t look away. When we finally break our gaze, I smile at her.
“You really did enjoy today, didn’t you?”
“I did,” she admits enthusiastically. “I loved seeing the pieces through your eyes too. The way you notice everything. The architecture, the light, the history. It’s actually pretty damn impressive.”
I lean back, pretending to be modest. “It was your knowledge, your eye, that made everything better.”
Jo throws her head back and laughs. “You really do have a way with words, Axel.”
I wait a moment before I speak again. “So,” I murmur, leaning in slightly and lowering my voice. “What happens in Paris stays in Paris, right?”
Jo raises an eyebrow, her lips curving with mischief. “Fine. But you have to promise to behave until we’re back in the room.”
“I promise to try,” I say, though my smile likely gives away my intention to test that promise as soon as possible.
Dessert arrives, something delicate and architecturally challenging involving chocolate and spun sugar.
“It’s so pretty I almost don’t want to ruin it,” Jo remarks.
“You didn’t hesitate with the duck.”
“That was different. That was destiny.”
I shake my head, amused, and pour more of the wine into both of our glasses. The lights have dimmed, and the low light catches her cheeks and lips. She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and looks at me across the table.
“Tell me something real about you,” she invites.
“I’ve told you many real things about me.”
“Financially viable things,” she corrects. “Not real.”
I lean back in my chair. “Define real.”
“Something small. Something odd. Something that wouldn’t appear in a biography.”
I consider her for a moment. She’s watching me intently, expectantly.
“I hate socks,” I say finally.
Her lips part in surprise. “That’s what you’re giving me?”
“I find them restrictive.”
She laughs. “You wear bespoke suits and complain about socks?”
“I remove them the second I get home.”
“That’s unexpectedly human.”
“You assumed I wasn’t human?”
“I assumed,” she says carefully. “That you were together. Not messy.”
“I’m not messy.”
She smiles. “You just confessed a domestic rebellion against hosiery.”
I exhale through my nose, conceding the point. “Fine. Your turn.”
She taps her fork against the plate thoughtfully. “I talk to paintings.”
I blink. “You what?”
“Only certain paintings,” she clarifies quickly. “When I’m restoring something, I ask it questions. I ask it, why it is sad? I try to imagine where the painting is most broken, and what would make it smile again.”
“That’s not strange,” I say. “It’s analytical.”
“It’s anthropomorphizing canvas.”
“It’s intimacy with your craft.”
She pauses at that, her eyes softening slightly. “See? The way you do that.”
“Do what?”
“You take something potentially embarrassing and make it sound strategic.”
“I prefer to call it reframing,” I say. I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table. “Why restoration?”
She doesn’t answer immediately. She traces the rim of her glass with a finger instead.
“Because I hate the idea of losing things,” she says eventually. “Not in a possessive way. In a historical way. Every painting carries the fingerprints of everyone who’s stood in front of it. Wars. Moves. Owners. Dust. Time. Restoring it feels like giving it another chance to be seen properly.”
There’s no performance in her voice now. No teasing.
“You think things deserve second chances,” I say.
“Yes,” she replies simply.
“And people? Do they deserve second chances?”
She looks up at that. “Mostly. Not pedophiles, rapists, and serial killers, though.”
A quiet settles between us, not heavy, but thoughtful.
“What about you?” she asks. “Why business? And don’t say legacy or because of Joseph.”
I give her a look. “You eliminated all my prepared answers.”
“Good. I don’t want prepared, I want truth.”
I roll the stem of my glass between my fingers. “Control,” I say finally.
She waits.
“I grew up around instability,” I continue evenly. “Money fixes instability. Systems fix chaos. If you build something strong enough, it doesn’t fall apart when someone unreliable leaves.”
Her expression shifts. Not pity, not judgment, just understanding. “So, you build structures,” she says quietly. “Like Leonardo.”
“I suppose I do.”
She studies me, her gaze searching my face. “But what happens when something unpredictable enters the frame?”
I hold her eyes with mine. “It depends on whether or not it strengthens the composition.”