She was going to make damn sure no one could ever hurt her again.
Not Clay. Not Jack. Not anyone.
She turned on the faucet again, splashed some water on her face, and imagined washing away those words from last night, returning to what she and Jack were. They were a temporary fix to heal each other’s hearts. Nothing more.
Besides, she had her work. She was due on stage later today for her keynote. She could immerse herself in what she loved deeply and always. Her work was the great love of her life, and no one could ever take that away from her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Turn Around
A fleet of nerves settled down in her belly as she waited in the wings. Julien, the psychologist and editor of the journal that was hosting the event, was on stage introducing her. Taking a few deep breaths, and checking to make sure her shirt was still tucked into her skirt—it was—and that her hair was holding up in its twist—not a strand was out of place—she told those butterflies in her stomach to get the hell out of town.
“And now it is my pleasure to introduce one of our esteemed colleagues from the United States, Michelle Milo, whose research and insight into this topic is at the very forefront. We are delighted to have her here in Paris for our conference,” he said, holding out his arm grandly as Michelle walked onto the stage. The audience clapped routinely, the sort of welcoming sound you receive before the crowd knows if they like you.
But forty minutes later, at the end of her talk, the clapping was real, and strong, and it reverberated.
True, the standing ovation didn’t happen. Something better did. The whole conference room at the convention hotel in Montparnasse listened. They paid attention. They didn’t check their phones. They even laughed at the occasional joke she dropped in. She’d brought her A-game, and judging by the crowd gathered at the front of the stage, many had questions ready to ask her. She stayed for them all, listening and answering until it was time to clear out the room for the next speaker.
Julien, ever the gracious host, waited patiently and escorted her off-stage.
“I have one more person for you to meet,” he said, then guided her down the hallway to a tall, thin and balding man who extended a hand for her to shake.
“This is Denis Garnier. He runs a practice here in the 6th, and practically begged me to introduce you.”
“Thank you so much,” she said, as she shook his hand.
“I am so impressed, and we don’t have many psychotherapists here in France with your background, so I wanted to talk about your findings. Ask some questions. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Of course,” she said, and then found a nearby couch and sat down. She was due to meet Jack soon, but she’d simply have to be a few minutes late. She gave Denis her supreme focus as they chatted. The conversation grounded her. Her work was her anchor; it had kept her going through good times and bad. It was her rock; it had been there for her during the ups and downs of grief and unrequited love.
Men were different. They came, and they went.
* * *
Jack looked relaxed and devilishly handsome in the crowded lobby bar, drinking a scotch, one arm resting on the back of an emerald-green couch. He wore jeans and a button-down white shirt. No tie today, and she missed her favorite accessory on the man, but then he looked good in anything and in nothing. He’d texted her that he’d be waiting at the bar, and to take her time when she said she was running late. When she’d received the text, she was grateful she had her work phone with her, since it was the only one set up to send and receive international text messages.
He watched her the whole time as she walked over, his eyes roaming her from head to toe. Her skin sizzled from the heated way he stared hungrily. This man didn’t hold back. He didn’t hide his desire. He wasn’t afraid to check her out, to stare, to look at her as if he wanted to eat her up. Good—that’s what they shared. A deep, and bottomless desire.
The couch he was seated on was next to a marble fireplace, and the plush wine-red carpeting gave the lobby bar a rich, old-money feel to it. It was like a private club. He rose and planted a kiss on one cheek, then the other. Then, a deep, possessive kiss on her mouth. As if he were marking her.
When they pulled apart, she felt dazed. Her head was foggy. The details of the day, of her talk, of her chat with Julien and Denis scattered on the ground. She didn’t mind, though; her day had been amazing, and now she was going to take her reward. Jack would be her dessert.
“Did you bring down the house?” he asked, as he gestured for her to sit next to him. She did, crossing her legs. He watched her.
“You’re staring at my legs,” she said.
“I know. I’m thinking about them draped on my shoulders.”
She laughed. “I need a scotch.”
He signaled the waiter, and ordered a drink for her as well. “So?” he asked, returning to their conversation.
“It was amazing. I was so energized. I really felt like I was connecting with the audience, and they were responding and learning. It was incredible,” she said, and she couldn’t wipe the smile from her face if she tried. Professional pride coursed through her. “Days like this remind me that I am so utterly lucky to be able to do what I love for a living.”
He held up his glass in toast. “To the smartest, sexiest, most wonderful woman I know. Congrats on a job well done,” he said, and a minute later, the waiter brought her drink, so they toasted once more. She took a swallow, then shared more details of her day. The conversation helped keep the focus on the type of relationship she and Jack were having—a temporary one. “I’m not exaggerating when I say I think this day is one of the highlights of my career,” she added.