I place the glass in front of her as she eyes the jug, probably wondering where the juice came from, given there was very little of anything in the fridge. But you can’t have breakfast without OJ, as far as I’m concerned. If I’m cooking breakfast, I’m doing it properly. Besides, what’s the point of paying a concierge service tens of thousands of dollars each year if they can’t get a dozen Californian oranges to your door in under thirty minutes?
“My mummy’s name is Irish,” Lulu announces. “And my real name is French.”
“Lulu isn’t your real name?’ I splash a little juice into the glass when it becomes clear Fee isn’t going to do it herself. “I guess that must make you a spy or some kind of secret agent.”
“I’m not a spy. I’m Eloise!” she says, giggling. “Eloise Rose Alden.”
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Eloise.”
“Bonjour, Oncle Carson,” she intones, and her French accent is flawless. Rose did say her friend was relocating from France. What a head fuck that she’s been within my reach all these years.
“Eloise is also a very pretty name.” I continue speaking in French, mainly to distract my overworked brain.
“Merci. Carson is a very funny name.”
“Your French is very good.”
“Thank you. So is yours.”
“Drink your orange juice,” Fee prompts her child.
“Maman doesn’t speak French?”
Fee sends me a withering look as her daughter answers with a giggle. “Of course she does, silly!”
Yes, I know that. I remember that. And now it looks like I don’t. Damn.
“It’s not polite to call people silly.” Along with the reprimand, Fee lowers her lashes almost demurely as I consider it’s probably also not polite to mention her mom is the hottest woman I’ve ever held in my arms. That she’s haunted my dreams. That I’ve been chasing the same kind of high since that fateful night.
An image of that night suddenly flicks to life in my head. On all fours, her blonde hair twisted in my fist as I pressed biting kisses to her lips, her long exhalation ringing through the room as I’d ease myself into her. My cock throbs quite suddenly at the images filling my head. Something about her manner is so proper, so tightly wound, and so unlike the carefree woman who’d booked us a room.
And I want her still.
I wanted her last night, and I want her now. I’ve wanted her every night I’ve thought of her since Saint Odile, wanted her so much it sometimes hurt. Not that this means anything right this moment. I’m hardly going to get to bend her over the countertop with the kid in the room, even if she looks at me like she worries I will.
The kid . . . Lulu.
Her kid. Mine?
She has my colouring and maybe even a little of the Hayes go fuck yourself attitude.
“We’re going to the zoo today,” Lulu announces, her eyes shining with excitement. “Do you want to come, too?”
“Mr Hayes is far too busy to come to the zoo with us.”
“It’s just Hayes. Or Carson, if you like.”
Ignoring me, she turns to her daughter. “The zoo will have to wait until this afternoon. We have to find a hotel first.”
“But you said—”
She cuts the kid off with a quelling look. “I know what I said.” Neither her tone nor her expression is sharp, but the warning is still there. “But Mr Hayes is home now, so we need to find somewhere else to stay.”
“Why?” The kid frowns, her mutiny marked in the jut of her tiny chin. “This ’partment is huge.”
“She’s right. There really is no need for you to leave.” And no way am I ready for them to leave. Reaching for my coffee, I take a leisurely sip. “Not for space and not on my account.”
Lulu seems to take this as answer enough, transferring her attention to her fluffy bunny.
You’re going nowhere.
Because I need to know more about you.
About this.
About everything.
“This was only ever meant to be temporary.” She gives a tiny but dismissive shake of her head. “We’ve outstayed our welcome.”
“You were a pretty welcome sight to come home to last night.”
“I can’t believe you said that,” she mutters, taking a sip from her glass.
“I can’t believe you’re drinking a roofied orange juice.”
She immediately pulls the glass away from her lips before sending a reproachful look. “That’s not funny.”
“Not even a little bit?”
“I can’t . . .” She lowers her voice, speaking quickly now. “I never thought I’d see you again.”
“It’s crazy, right? Talk about seven degrees of separation.”
“More like just one.”
“Rose,” I agree, nodding slowly. What a mindfuck. All this time she’s been within reach.
“I-I don’t want. I need you to keep what has happened—”
“Keep it a secret?” Her response is an eager nod. “Which part? That we’ve met? That we go way back? That we’ve seen each other’s genitals. That we’ve f—”