“None taken,” I murmur under my breath as I flatten my shirt to my chest.
Archer’s eyes linger on me, raking up and down my body, and I find myself turning away from him.
“You always look this put together?” he asks.
My head notches in his direction. “Put together? You mean…dressed?”
There’s that fucking smile of his again. “You’re more than dressed. You’re…dressed.”
“You don’t often make much sense, do you?”
Lucien snickers quietly in the front seat, and Archer doesn’t bother looking the least bit offended. “I try not to. If I start making sense, then I start sounding like my father.”
“What’s wrong with your father?” I ask with curiosity.
“Nothing. He’s great. A good guy for sure. But he’s just so…much.”
Turning toward Archer, I scan his features, feeling a hint of familiarity in my chest.
“He’s just…he’s perfect, you know? He always has been. He handles everything with grace, never loses his temper or panics or shows weakness. He built an entire fucking empire from nothing and acts like it wasn’t the massive achievement that it was. Like…if you can be so humble aboutthat, then what on earth canIdo to impress you, know what I mean?”
He runs a hand through his hair, and I watch him through narrowed, attentive eyes. When I don’t say anything in response to his small rant, he turns my way, and I see a lightning storm in his eyes. Archer does this a lot, I’ve noticed. Lets out a rant of feelings with the smallest prompt, as if he’s bottled it all up for too long.
“I’m not making sense again,” he says with an uneasy laugh.
“Yes, you are,” I mumble under my breath.
Because I do get it. And maybe I should tell him that. That I understand what it’s like to have a father who everyone loves. With a great personality. Charm. Money. Everything.
And then trying to be the tree forced to grow in the shade of all that. I cannot outshine my father. I don’t even try anymore, and with every bit of help and guidance he gives me, he doesn’t realize he’s just…casting a bigger shadow. Being a better man.
Leaving me no choice but to be…a worse one.
The car pulls up to the restaurant, and Archer lets out a low whistle as we both take in the sight of Freya waiting for us outside.
She clears every thought in my head. In a sapphire-blue dress that wraps around her torso and hugs her gentle curves, she could turn every head in Paris. She certainly has me dumbstruck and freezing when I should be opening the door to climb out of the car.
Archer leans toward me, gaping out the window the same way I am. Freya is standing in the chill night air, covered in a thick, gray coat, opened to reveal the plunging neckline of her dress, bangles on her wrists peeking out of the sleeves and layered necklaces resting against her collarbones.
Her dark locks cascade over one shoulder, giving her such wild beauty that nearly takes my breath away.
When I feel Archer’s warm breath on my neck, I turn my gaze toward him and realize with confidence that he is thinking the same exact thing I am.
Which one of us will be the lucky bastard to win her attention? Can her love be bought, and if so, how much are we willing to pay?
“Just a fun night with friends,” he mutters lowly with a hint of sarcasm.
“Sure,” I reply without emotion.
“Look,” he says. “We can just have fun. No need to fight over her.”
“Easy for you to say,” I mumble in response. Then, turning toward him again, I add, “She already likes you.”
Opening the car door, I climb out. Freya’s eyes find me, andI watch as she sucks in a long breath, bracing herself. As if being around me is something she has to prepare herself for. When Archer gets out of the car, she releases the breath and smiles.
“Wow,” he says, gesturing to her dress. “You’re going to cause car accidents standing out here like that.”
“Oh, shut up,” she laughs as she greets him with a hug. Turning toward me, she gives a tense smile. “Hi, Julian.”
