He takes another breath and straightens us out, never removing his hand from my hip.
“We’re going to walk over in that corner and talk. Do you understand?”
Shocked at his tone, I nod and comply easily.
“What’s wrong? I don’t understand.” I look up at him, concerned. This is an entirely different man than the one I spent hours with that night.
“Stop it, Juliette. Don’t try to act innocent now.”
“Innocent? I’m so confused. Can you slow down? You’re hurting my leg,” I cry.
He narrows his eyes. “You’re fine. We’re almost there.”
“No, seriously,” I snap. “My leg.”
He stops abruptly, and his face falls, looking my body over. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s fine mostly,” I mumble. “I was in an accident, and I still get nerve pain.”
He leans down, picks me up bridal style, and storms off toward the corner. I don’t protest for even one second. I love the feeling of being in his arms.
Even if he is acting like a lunatic.
Unable to help myself, I nuzzle my head into his chest and place my arm around his neck to steady myself. I feel him take a deep breath and sigh like he can breathe now that we are connected, even though I know that sounds insane.
For me, when my hands meet his skin, my body burns; something deep inside me stirs, begging me to lift my head and kiss his sharp jaw and those luscious lips. Harrison’s presence makes me feel feral with need, something I’ve never experienced or knew I had in me.
When he places me on the floor, his hand returns to my waist, trapping me against the wall. My stomach flips with nerves, and I open my mouth to talk, but nothing comes out. I’m so out of sorts I don’t know what to do.
“So, let’s start from the beginning,” he growls. “How long have you known me for?”
“What?” I question, completely confused.
“Maybe I should ask in French.Depuis quand tu me connais?”
“Is this a trick question? The first time I ever saw you was at the restaurant.”
He huffs out a laugh and smirks sarcastically. “There it is.The first time. Then how many times after that?”
Okay, what is he insinuating?
Because now I’m starting to get pissed off at his tone, and I am usually the epitome of calm.
I put my hands on my hip and plaster on an unimpressed resting bitch face.
“Harrison, I don’t know where you’re going with this, but spit it the fuck out. And I don’t like the tone you’re taking with me.”
“Don’t tell me what tone to take, Juliette. What is your deal? Your goal?” He commands, “Because clearly, you kept your identity a secret for a reason.”
My eyes widen in shock, “Oh my god, are you joking right now?” I laugh in his face. “My identity? Who am I, Jason Fucking Bourne?”
“Dead fucking serious.” He yells and squeezes my hip, reminding me his hand is still on me.
I push with all my might and fling his hand off.
“You’re not who I thought you were,” I poke my finger into his chest, “But I shouldn’t be surprised.” I shake my head, disappointed he’s like all the rest of the wealthy, entitled New Yorkers.
He narrows his eyes and glares at me. “What the hell does that mean?”
