Breathe Me - C.R. Jane Page 0,61

I'm going to be fifteen minutes early but unable to control myself.

She's dressed in blue today. It's my favorite color, and I wonder absentmindedly if she did It on purpose, the color just another weapon in her evil arsenal.

Her hair's also down today, my favorite way that she wears it. It's longer than it was as a teenager, almost reaching the perfect curve of her ass. The blue showcases the golden tone of her skin and eyes, making her look almost angelic.

I wonder what color she's wearing underneath her dress. I hate how desperately I want to find out. I grit my teeth and finally tear my gaze from her, hating myself for the moment of weakness.

She found me the second she stepped into the cafe, almost like she could sense me. Her golden gaze locked on mine, and I could have sworn for a moment that the whole world disappeared around us.

But then Logan and Quaid step through the doorway after her, unable to keep themselves from touching her, and the moment is broken.

I was reminded once again of the fact that I hadn't been enough for the one thing that I'd wanted for myself more than anything else. Finding that hard truth out at eighteen had been the nail in the coffin for my fucked up youth.

Looks like the burn is still there, even as an adult.

"This place is amazing," she sighs when their trio reaches the table I've somehow been able to finagle in the already crowded cafe.

"It's a tourist trap," I snap, hating the dejected look on her face.

I know why she wanted to go here. It had been in that stupid travel book. The first place we'd wanted to eat when we got to Paris.

And now here I am, ruining it for us.

"The pastries and cappuccinos are very good," I tell her conciliatorily, ignoring the way my heart leaps when her face visibly brightens. She gives me a slow smile, and it feels like I've jumped off a fucking cliff with how much my stomach is leaping at the sight of it.

A slim, blonde waitress comes to the table with a small pad to get our order. She's attractive, but she might as well be paint on the wall compared to Valentina's beauty.

Valentina gives her order, slaughtering the foreign words enough that I almost smile. Almost.

Quaid and Logan don't bother to hold back their grins. Logan in particular makes me want to throw up when he intentionally slaughters the words, even though I know for a fact when looking at his firm bio last night that Logan has become fluent in French over the last ten years.

Fucking prick.

The waitress eats it up, fluttering her eyelashes. I notice that Valentina's cheeks turn red, and I wonder if she's actually jealous.

I'm not sure how she's missed the fact that Logan and Quaid are prepared to kiss her feet if she asked.

The waitress puts her hand on my shoulder when she asks how I'd like my espresso, and a curl of satisfaction hits me as Valentina's gaze tracks the movement. She looks like she's about to jump across the table and rip the woman's hand off my shoulder. It seems like the French lack of personal space is working in my favor at the moment.

Quaid shoots me a look, like he knows exactly what I'm doing, but I pointedly ignore it. Logan, the asshole, teases Valentina, effectively diverting her attention. I shrug off the waitress's hand, sending her huffing away, most likely to spit in my coffee. I pull on my collar, feeling like I'm missing something without Valentina's attention on me.

I pretend not to listen to Logan and Quaid flirt with her. They can't keep their hands off of her, and my eyes widen as I think about a possible reason for their easiness with her this morning.

Did they fuck her last night?

Just the thought has me seeing red. I grip the table, letting go abruptly when the aged wood cracks. Valentina looks at me in surprise when she hears the noise.

And again, Quaid gives me a look.

This is an exercise in surviving torture honestly.

Our food is brought out, the waitress avoiding me this time around. Valentina stares at her food for a long second, and there's this look on her face of abject longing. Like instead of a Parisian pastry lying on her plate, it's her worst nightmare instead. Or a particularly awful memory.

"Val?" Logan asks carefully after a moment.

She gives us all a shaky smile.