Page 100 of Jude

Instead of taking my mouth, his lips veered off, pressing hard and slow along the side of my mouth.

So agonizingly close, a scorching touch right at the corner of my lips that set every nerve ending in my body on fire.

He lingered there, his jaw locked, his body rigid as he inhaled the scent of my skin, as if fighting the urge to consume me whole before pulling back just an inch.

‘Drink your coffee, babe,’ he rumbled. ‘Before I forget my own damn rules.’

The yellow Paris taxi jerked through the morning gridlock.

Sunlight streaked through the glass, baking the limestone facades of the Boulevard Haussmann under the bright summer heat.

Nari adjusted her blazer in the fold-down seat opposite me.

Her eyes tracked the delivery bikes weaving between bumpers.

‘You’re squeezing that leather folder so hard it’ll crack,’ Nari said. ‘Relax. The paperwork is solid.’

I smoothed the navy wool of my skirt over my knees.

She continued. ‘You’re married to an Australian rock star with a spotless tax record. They’ll hand you the visa with a ribbon on top.’

Doubt twisted my stomach into hard knots.

Marriage on paper was one thing. Standing in front of a federal officer and pretending our situationship was normal was another.

‘I appreciate you coming with me,’ I said.

‘Of course, honey, we got you.’

Once more, the closeness of the Six Sinners family impressed me.

The cab pulled up to the security gates of the American Embassy on Avenue Gabriel.

Concrete barriers blocked the drive, and guards stood in navy short-sleeved uniforms under the summer sun.

Nari paid the driver while I stepped onto the pavement.

Inside, the waiting room smelled of air conditioning, sweat, and stale filter coffee. We sat on plastic chairs under fluorescent tubes that crackled overhead.

Twenty minutes later, a young consular officer with a receding hairline called my name. I stepped up to the glass booth alone.

He flipped through the blue folder Jude’s high-priced lawyers had assembled.

Tax forms, lease agreements, affidavits from Sheriff Kian Martinez, photos of Jude and me, as well as bank statements from my husband.

‘Sofia Antonelli?’

The officer checked my passport, comparing it to his data on his computer monitor.

‘Yes.’

My voice held steady, though my heart pounded.

He stamped three pages in rapid succession. Red ink hit the white paper with dull thuds.

‘We’ll let you know when the visa is processed.’

That was it.