Fucking phenomenal.
As we come down, I hurriedly get up to remove the condom and return, gently collapsing on top of her small frame. I need to touch her, feel her. Swiftly rolling until I’m on my back, I take her with me.
Olivia curls against me, her head resting on my chest, her breathing slow and even. I must doze off, because when my eyes open, the light in the room has shifted, muted, gold around the edges.
Something soft brushes my arm. Her fingertip. She’s tracing one of my tattoos, slow and lazy, like she’s memorizing it.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, her voice husky. “Did I wake you?”
“Nah.” I press a kiss to her forehead, my lips catching on a strand of her hair. “Could wake up like this every day.”
She smiles, still half-asleep, her hand wandering over my chest, pausing on the ink along my ribs. “Tell me about these,” she says quietly.
I grin a little. “What do you want to know?”
She taps the cabbage. “This one. What’s the story? And I’m guessing there’s a connection toMon Petit Chou.”
Smart woman. Always paying attention.
“Yeah.” I catch her hand and kiss the back of it before threading our fingers together. “My grand-mère used to call memon petit chou—means ‘my little cabbage.’”
I let out a soft laugh. “Sounds weird in English, I know, but in French it’s sweet. As I’ve already told you, my grandparents raised me for a time after my mom died. I got the tattoo after my eighteenth birthday, and when I opened my first restaurant, I named it for her. It was my way of keeping her with me. She’d be proud, I think. She always said I had good hands for the kitchen.”
Olivia pushes up on her elbow, eyes warm and full. Then she leans in, kissing my neck, my jaw, then lower, her lips brushing over the ink. “I love that,” she whispers. “Mon petit chou.It’s beautiful. They must’ve loved you so much.”
“They did.”
“It must’ve been hard…losing them so young.”
“Yeah.” My throat tightens for a second. “It was. But I got lucky with Bas. If I hadn’t met him, I’d probably be in a lot worse shape. Maybe even dead. He gave me something to fight for again.”
Her eyes soften, and she whispers, “I can’t wait to meet him.”
I grin, brushing a thumb along her bare hip. “Oh, you will. Tomorrow, actually. I’m spending the day with him and Alec. Since you surprised me, you’re coming too.”
Her eyes widen, then she laughs, light and genuine. “You planned that well, didn’t you?”
“Not really.” I squeeze her ass playfully before giving a soft swat. She squeals and smacks my chest, giggling, the sound like sunlight in the room.
“Enough,Monsieur Beaulieu.” She sparkles when she teases. “Tell me about this one.”
She touches the words inked along my ribs, tracing the letters like they’re something sacred. Her voice is quiet when she asks, “What does it mean?”
“Mais les yeux sont aveugles. Il faut chercher avec le cœur.”Naturally, theFrench rolls easily off my tongue.
She looks up at me, waiting, expectant.
“It means, ‘But the eyes are blind. One must look with the heart.’”
Her lips part. “The Little Prince.”
I nod. “Yeah.Le Petit Prince.My grand-père and I used to read it together. When I was little, he’d read it to me. Later, when I was a little older and could, I’d read it to him. Though there were words I would still need his help with.” A smile springs to my lips at the memory. “We must’ve gone through the book a hundred times.”
She smiles softly. “I love that story. I’ve read it to my kids so many times I can almost recite it.”
I chuckle. “You probably could. There are a lot of great lines in there. But this one. It stuck.” I pause, tracing the edge of the blanket with my thumb, searching for the right words. “I guess because it’s true. The world shows you what it wants you to see. But it’s not always what’s real. You have to look deeper. Past the surface. Past the scars. That’s where the good stuff is.”
Her gaze finds mine again, deep and steady. “That’s how you live,” she says quietly. “You see with your heart.”
