Page 35 of Brutal Heir

The table erupted in cheers as one of the seamstresses stood to make a toast. “À nous, à notre succès, et à cette incroyable aventure ! On l'a fait, et on a survécu! Santé!”

One of the models, who was celebrating with us at Café Le Petit Bonbon in the Latin Quarter of Paris, leaned over to translate. “She said, ‘To us, to our success, and to this incredible adventure! We did it. We survived! Cheers!’”

I smiled my appreciation as we both raised our champagne glasses in salute before drinking.

Once again, I tapped my phone screen.

Five minutes past.

I drained my glass and held it out for more.

Then I drained that too.

I closed my eyes as the room spun slightly.

A server arrived with platters of food for our group.

They carefully placed them on the various round white marble tables we had pushed together. We scurried to move glasses and ashtrays out of the way to make room.

After two weeks of surviving on stale craft service sandwiches, we’d pooled our money together for a treat.

Everyone eagerly tore off pieces of warm, crusty bread as they passed around the cheese platter filled with Mont d'Or, Comté, Brie de Meaux, and Bleu d'Auvergne cheeses served with honey, fig jam, walnuts, and dried apricots. There were also buttery, mini Croque Monsieurs and savory Madeleines stuffed with fresh thyme and Gruyere.

Since I was already buzzed, I needed to eat something before I drank any more champagne. I pushed a handful of truffle fries onto my plate, loving the earthy, mushroom scent.

Too bad they tasted like sawdust in my mouth.

Again, I hit my phone screen.

Ten minutes.

The door opened with a sudden gust of cold air. I spun my head so quickly, my neck cramped, sending a sickening rush of blood along the crimped muscle.

It wasn’t Sebastian.

Of course it wasn’t. The man didn’t have mythical powers. He wasn’t going to magically track me down at this tiny cafe in Paris.

I gulped more champagne to moisten my dry mouth.

Did Sebastian know yet that I'd stood him up?

How long would his driver wait until he realized I wasn't coming? Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes?

My gaze wandered to the window to stare out into the bright autumn night. The romantic lights of Paris twinkled while couples snuggled close against the chill as they hurried past the cafe window.

I looked at my phone again.

Twelve minutes.

I couldn’t imagine Sebastian Diamanti sending a "where u at" text after being stood up.

I flipped the phone over. I needed to stop checking. I'd already cast that die.

There was a darkness about Sebastian Diamanti.

It was hard to discern—at first. All I saw was a tall, handsome stranger with dark eyes, thick wavy hair, and an angular jaw that could cut glass.

His Italian accent mesmerized me as he stretched out vowels, as if he were savoring them on his tongue, and made me want to taste the words on his lips. And the low purr whenever he rolled his “r”s clenched my ovaries.