the way to his stony gray eyes that suddenly hit me with a curious expression as I come to a full stop. Who is he? And why does he look like he’s the cover model of every GQ magazine ever?
When I climb out of my car and try to handle my bags, a warm hand engulfs my elbow.
“Allow me,” the deep voice says.
Seriously! Who is this dude? And why is his voice French and dreamy? Warmth skates over my skin, giving me a different kind of shiver. My stomach does a weird floaty thing inside as I watch him grab my bags easily. Older men always catch my attention. It must be that I’m wired wrong. My eyes appreciate their graying temples and dad bods. But this man? There’s no dad bod. It’s just all bod.
“Dad! Don’t go scaring her away!” Gray yells from the front entrance. My mouth hangs open as realization dawns on me. Shit. Gray’s dad is a DILF. He turns to me with the hottest smirk I’ve ever experienced.
“She likes me, don’t you, ma coccinelle,” he muses happily. My ladybug. Heat creeps up on my cheeks, making my stomach flip. His accent is thick and dreamy, smoothing over me like a strong shot of whiskey. God, I need to get it together. It wasn’t more than a day ago that I caught Wes cheating on me. And this—hot dad with an amazing body—will never happen.
“Dad! Good God, you’re going to make her faint. Stop it!” She’s hollering, but it’s with joy, as though this happens often, and she’s always after him for it. Well, if he calls just anyone his ladybug, they might be catching some fists.
“I’m Francis,” he finally introduces himself when we’re at the landing. He smiles at me boyishly, a dimple poking through his scruffy cheek. That action alone makes me squirm, and I feel like an actual teenager—one adored. And to me, that makes this entire trip worth it.
“Joey,” I reply, offering a hand. His teeth show when his grin widens. That’s when I notice he can’t shake my hand with all of my bags in his grasp. I have to keep myself from biting my lip to stop from smiling so much. It’s unlike me to feel this swoony. Is that even a word?
“Ma coccinelle,” he teases with a larger than life grin. I cover my face because I’m not used to this kind of attention. The non-pervy kind that’s just friendly and sweet. It’s such a French thing. Even after six months in that country, I never got used to it. Americans always come off as sleazy when they flirt. Like Lucien.
“It’s nice to meet you.”
He sets my bags down and instead of grabbing my hand to shake, he pulls me into a hug and kisses both cheeks. I’m out of breath as he pulls away. Watching me with a flirtatious quirk to his lips, he leads me into the enormous foyer. “I’ve heard a lot about you. And how you saved mon lapin from an untimely accident.”
I peer at Gray, giving her a thankful expression. She must really like me. No one likes me. I’m not really a people person, and I’m surprised she’s had a good impression from someone like me.
The lost girl.
One who never belongs.
Bitter. Mean. Cruel.
“Thank you for allowing me to stay,” I merely whisper, grabbing my throat in shame. Depending on others has never been my strong suit. It makes me feel weak, less, unworthy. The gratitude in my voice must show because, somehow, his smile widens even more.
“Pas de problème,” he says.
“Really, Dad. English. Jesus,” Gray complains with her signature eye roll. I’ve seen that a time or two. She bites her cheek as if she’s amused at the fact that her dad seems to have taken a liking for me.
“My bad,” he grumbles. “I’ve only been to the States three times in the past seventeen years. It’s easy to go back to what I know.” As he explains, his accent goes in and out, as if he’s trying to correct himself with each word.
It’s cute.
We walk together, all while my eyes devour the inside of their home. The halls are filled with art that probably costs as much as my existence. Each one has hanging lights, each piece highlighted and expressed with care. The designs of the walls are filled with the kind of damask wallpaper that reminds me of Gothic historical homes. It’s beautiful and done well enough not to appear tacky.