‘How did you measure it?’
‘With lasers, of course.’ She smiled and Santos tried to focus his thoughts; the strength of his erection beneath the table was hardly helpful.
He could see what a good teacher she’d be. She was patient and engaging and seemed genuinely passionate about the subject matter.
‘But what—?’
‘No more questions for Miss Ashford.’ Talia grinned, standing up and resting her hands on the back of the chair. ‘It’s time for bed.’
‘But it’s only seven-thirty!’
‘Exactly,’ Talia said with a crisp nod. ‘The perfect time for little boys to have their stories read.’
‘I’m not tired.’
Amelia’s smile was all indulgence. ‘You always say that, right before your head hits the pillow and you’re fast asleep within minutes.’
Something inside Santos shifted. Guilt? Jealousy? He had no idea about his son’s bedtime rhythms.
Cameron opened his mouth to challenge that statement but then nodded with a glimmer of obedience. ‘Okay, then.’ He stood up and rounded the table, coming to Amelia’s side. She lifted an arm around him, holding him there, burying her face in his hair, and for a minute there was such a look of unguarded sadness and love on her features that his breath snagged in his throat.
‘Goodnight, darling.’ She kissed his hair, smiling directly into his eyes. Warmth replaced the s
adness; she was beautiful.
‘Night.’ Cameron moved further down the table. It was a new thing for Santos to dine with his son. Even in England, Santos had come home too late for Cameron’s mealtime. They therefore didn’t have any kind of routine established and the little boy looked unsure as to what to say or do to his father. It clutched something tight in Santos’s chest.
He smiled reassuringly, his gut churning for how alike they were—Cameron could have been Santos at the same age. ‘You know,’ he said thoughtfully, scanning the little boy’s face. ‘Paris is only a short flight from here. Perhaps we could go there and see the magical, growing Eiffel Tower for ourselves?’
Cameron’s eyes turned into little round plates of blue. ‘Really?’
‘Really.’ He shifted his attention to Amelia. ‘What do you think, Miss Ashford?’
She sat back in her seat as a young woman cleared the plates. ‘I think Cameron would enjoy that,’ Amelia said with a small smile, reserved just for the little boy.
‘I would.’
Santos laughed. ‘Then I’ll arrange it.’ He didn’t expect his son to hug him. It was still new—they were learning. But he reached out and tousled Cameron’s hair, then put his hand on his shoulder. ‘Kalinychta.’
Amelia’s eyes flew to his, and now heat sparked between them. She wasn’t ice. Not at all.
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means goodnight.’
‘Kalinychta,’ Cameron repeated, his pronunciation close to perfect.
‘Excellent,’ Santos praised.
‘Kalinychta,’ Cameron said again, apparently enjoying the feeling of the word in his mouth. He repeated it to Amelia as he left the room, Talia’s arm wrapping around Cameron’s shoulder as she shepherded him away for the night.
Leaving Santos alone with Amelia.
‘Well.’ She moved to stand, as though she couldn’t leave quickly enough. He shook his head, the single gesture holding her where she was a moment. Their eyes held, a challenge moving from him to her and being returned with twice the intensity, so his whole body began to ache for her, to want her, to imagine what being with her would be like.
‘When were you in Paris?’
She reached forward, toying with the stem of her wine glass. It was filled with a clear liquid—mineral water. ‘I went last summer.’ She sipped her drink.