Page 50 of The Heart You Kept

Just being this close to him sends goose bumps scattering up my arms.

Thump

Thump… goes my heart.

Pascal looks between us. “You know each other?”

“Alora and I are old friends,” he replies calmly, totally unruffled by his lie. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

My eyes search his, what is he doing?

This man has more front than a double-decker bus.

“How do you know each other?” Pascal demands in such a tone it drags my eyes back to him. He’s unimpressed and on the defensive.

“Alora is close with my sister, Charlotte.” He turns his attention to me and I wither under his gaze. “We’re old family friends, aren’t we?”

“I….” I swallow the lump in my throat as I process what he’s saying “Umm…. Yes.”

Why did I just lie?

“Come, I would like you to meet Hermione.” He takes my hand in his. “I’m stealing her for a moment,” he announces to Pascal before pulling me away.

Oh my god. Oh my god.

My body screams with excitement at his touch.

He pulls me by the hand through the crowd but we don’t head toward the beautiful people, we head toward the door. “What are you doing?” I whisper.

“I need a word.”

The feel of his big hand around mine sends tingles up my arm and I know full well that this is a disaster of epic proportions. We burst out the side door and land in some kind of reception area. He looks around and spots a staircase. “Here.”

“What?” I stammer as he pulls me along. I look around guiltily, what if somebody sees us? “What are you doing?”

“I need a word.” He takes the stairs and I’m forced to follow.

Forced isn’t the right term…. I could stop this anytime I wanted to, but I want to hear what this word is.

We get to the top of the stairs and he looks left and right and then marches down a hallway until we get to a library; he pulls us in and closes the door behind us.

Suddenly alone, we stare at each other. My eyes roam over every inch of the face that I have dreamed about, cried about, and wished so desperately to see again.

Oh….

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice soft and cajoling. Just the sound of his dreamy English accent in that husky tone lights a fire in my memory bank.

“I live in Nice.”

He frowns. “You live in Nice?”

I nod.

“All this time you’ve been in Nice, half an hour away from me?”

What?

“Where do you live?”