Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 43856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
“Thank you.” I took my seat next to him, close enough to feel the warmth from his body radiating against mine.
All around us were couples—entranced by each other, oblivious to everything else.
Yet, the intimacy of our positions made everything else fade away.
Suddenly it was just me and him.
In this shared dream, nothing else mattered; no one else existed.
He turned to me, and his green eyes reflected the vibrant colors from the aquarium below. They were a world unto themselves, and I found myself entranced by their depths.
He gestured to our table. “Do you like this?”
“It’s incredible.”
“It is.”
The waitress approached our table with two glasses, tall and elegant, encased in swirling smoke that curled around the rims like a spell being cast.
I sat forward, intrigued, watching the way the light caught the mist, shifting it into soft ribbons of white.
“Good evening.” She set the glasses down in front of us.
I took her in.
She was stunning—deep brown skin, high cheekbones, and a confident smirk that said she’d seen it all. Her sleek black uniform fit like a second skin, and her short, coiled curls framed her face like a halo.
I liked her already.
"This is our first-course pairing, an exclusive cocktail that only exists within these walls." She held her hands out. "It’s called The Golden Mirage. Infused with aged Louis XIII cognac, saffron honey, Tahitian vanilla, and just a hint of smoked cinnamon, it’s meant to awaken the senses—warmth, depth, a little bit of magic."
I blinked. "Did you say Louis XIII?"
She smirked. "Oh yeah. That’s about five grand a bottle. So, don’t waste a drop."
My eyes widened. "Oh, I wasn’t planning on it."
She chuckled. "It also has edible gold flakes, a hint of passionfruit puree, and a little touch of bergamot to round out the experience. Stir it gently before you sip. Let it coat your tongue."
Mr. Lyon nodded. "Very impressive."
She gave him a look. "I know, right? You’re about to drink a car payment."
I laughed, and she winked before giving us both a little nod. "Enjoy, you two."
And with that, she sauntered off, leaving me staring at the ridiculously expensive drink in front of me.
He reached for his first, picking up the stem between two fingers before swirling it lightly. The golden flakes inside caught the candlelight, swirling like tiny stars suspended in amber.
Next, he lifted the glass to his lips, took a slow sip, and then gave a single approving nod. "Impressive."
I lifted my own glass, watching the smoke curl away as I brought it to my lips.
And then. . .
Oh.
Warmth.
Depth.
A perfect balance of rich, golden honey and smooth vanilla, kissed with the faintest whisper of spice.
Damn.
It rolled over my tongue like liquid silk, coating every inch of my mouth in something so decadent, so indulgent, that I nearly moaned.
I lowered the glass and exhaled. "That is dangerous."
His lips curled. "Good dangerous?"
"I’m not sure." I laughed softly. "It’s. . .luxury in a glass. It tastes like a stack of money and reckless decisions."
He chuckled, swirling his drink again. "And which one of those do you plan to have tonight?"
I smirked. "A little of both, maybe."
Lust blazed in his gaze before he leaned back in his chair, studying me over the rim of his glass. "You’re not from New York."
I smirked. "Neither are you."
"I’m from Paris."
"I figured."
"And where are you from?"
"I’m a Southern California girl."
"Aww. Very interesting."
I snorted. "Is it?"
"Very much." His gaze swept lazily over me. "That’s where the glow is coming from on your breathtaking skin. It must be all the sun."
Heat licked at my cheeks, but I rolled my eyes playfully. "Are you always this smooth?"
He winked. “It’s a French thing.”
“Aww.”
“Sorry, that your American men lack it.”
“Wow. At least the French are humble.”
“I don’t think that word is even in our dictionary.”
I chuckled.
He took another sip and then casually asked, "Are you a surfer?"
I actually laughed out loud. "Is that what you think of all California girls?"
"Of course." He playfully shrugged. "Fun in the sun, roller skates, beaches, and perfect tans."
I snickered. "Wow. So. . .you’ve never been to California?"
"Never. But now, I have an interesting reason to visit."
My heart warmed. "Yeah. . .you do."
For a moment, we just looked at each other.
I took another slow sip of my drink, my mind wandering—not just to the way he looked, or the way he watched me, but to the mystery of him.
Why was a man like this here, alone?
Why did it feel like he had a secret tucked between every breath, every gaze, every careful word?
Before I could ask, he set his glass down and lifted his eyes to mine. "What is your first name, Ms. Harris?"
"Rae." I watched him. "What’s yours?"
He paused, then exhaled, as if considering his answer. Then, smoothly, he lowered his voice like it was a huge secret, "Fabien."
I tested it in my head—Fah-BYEN.
It fit him.