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, andoh!
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.
