My hands slide down the strong planes of his back to his jeans, and he groans softly, his mouth moving to my neck, nipping at my earlobe until I feel dizzy with desire.
His hands settle on my hips, tugging me into him, and I can feel the hard press of him through denim.
My breath catches.
“Whatever you want,” he murmurs against my skin. “Whatever your heart’s desire. Just tell me what it is… ”
I open my mouth to answer—but then there’s a firm knock on the door.
“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Devereaux,” a voice calls. “The captain says we’re about to hit a pocket of turbulence. It’s best to return to your seats and buckle in.”
We both freeze for a second, then burst out laughing. We straighten, still flushed, still breathless, and head for the door.
“You,” I say softly as we step back into the main cabin. “That’s what I want. I want to be here. With you. Holding you. Being held by you.”
He turns, his expression tender, and squeezes my hand. “Then that’s exactly what you shall have,” he says.
As we settle back into our seats, he leans close again. “Also—if you’d rather wear what you’ve got on, or switch into sweats, or pajamas, your birthday suit—whatever.This wasn’t about a wardrobe makeover. I just knew my surprise might leave you a little... unprepared.”
I laugh, sinking into the soft leather seat as the engines hum around us.
Unprepared doesn’t even begin to cover it.
TWENTY-EIGHT
SPENCER
We land just before 8:30 p.m., Paris time.
The air is cool, still holding the last shimmer of spring sun. And from the moment Rhea steps off the jet, she’s glowing.
I don’t rush her.
We linger at the edge of the tarmac while she takes it all in—the silhouette of the Eiffel Tower in the distance, the hum of the city just beyond the private terminal.
When our car arrives, I hold the door and tell her, “The night’s still young. I hope you packed your sense of wonder.”
She laughs, low and nervous, “I don’t think that’s ever left my bag.”
By 10:15, we’re at our first stop: the Trocadéro. It's one of the best views in the world. Definitely the best night view of the tower.
And right on cue, the Eiffel Tower begins its hourly shimmer, and Rhea gasps—actually gasps—as if someone just lit the stars on fire.
“So damn beautiful,”she says, voice a whisper.
“Yes, you are,” I whisper back. Kissing the top of her head.
We take a photo. I swear she glows brighter than the tower.
The next stop - I’ll admit- I had to have Gina pull a few strings for.
It’s a rooftop terrace atop a restored 19th-century hotel in the Marais. Normally it’s reserved for exclusive fashion events, but tonight, it’s ours. Blankets. Candles. A violinist. A view of the whole damn city.
We’re served a late dinner—bubbly, light bites, macarons, and strawberries dipped in ganache.
She takes a bite of the duck confit, lets out a soft moan, and presses a hand to her chest.
“Oh my god,” she says. “This might be the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
