Final Call (Call #2)(70)
Author: Emma Hart

He prods me in the side. “I think I found desires you weren’t aware of over the last few days.”

Ah, this much is true. Who knew having sex in front of a large bay window in the middle of the day was so fun?

“I was very much aware of them. They’d just never been satisfied before now.”

“They’ll continue to be satisfied, too.”

“I should hope so.”

He laughs quietly, burying his face into my neck. “Sit up. Let me wash your hair.”

I do as he says, and he grabs the showerhead from the little holder I put it in for easy reach. When the water is the right temperature, I lean my head back and let him wet my hair.

“Tyler’s coming back to Seattle in a few weeks.”

“He is?”

“Hmm. He said he’ll call you to arrange your photography lessons when he’s found a place to live.”

I lick my lips. “I forgot to tell you about that. With everything—”

“I’m not mad, sweetheart. Would you believe I’m happier at the thought of you being behind the camera instead of in front of it?” He pauses in his massaging motion, and I crane my neck round to look at him.

“Would you believe I’m not surprised in the slightest?”

We share a smile, and he turns my head again. “He said you were thinking of going back to school.”

“Yeah. I was considering it.”

“He didn’t tell you, huh?”

“Tell me what?”

Aaron rinses the shampoo from my hair with the showerhead before he replies. “Tyler is trained to teach photography. He used to do shoots for us on the side, outside of classes, but he loved the photography side so much he gave up teaching.”

“Tyler is a professor?”

Well, shit me.

“There are a lot of things about Tyler you don’t know, Dayton. He’ll teach you so you don’t need to go back to college.”

I consider this. “Like an apprentice?”

“Yes, exactly like that. It’s the best training you could get, and from the best photographer I know. He’ll continue his freelance work for us while you work together.”

“So technically I’ll be working for you.”

“No. Tyler isn’t employed by us.” Aaron trails his fingers down my back. “He’s self-employed. We commission him to do shoots for us, so you’ll be working for yourself.”

I shrug. I can deal with that, and I actually prefer it. Imagine working for the guy you live with. Aside from the fact that I’ve never really worked for anyone in my life, no matter what people say, you don’t leave stuff at the door or at work. It’ll carry over. Having an argument at home then having to go to work with him would drive me insane.

Aaron lifts me from the bath, and I smile. It doesn’t matter if I can do it myself. He’s going to do it anyway, and this is a battle I’m choosing not to fight. No point wasting my energy on something I won’t win.

I curl myself into the thick, fluffy towels we bought yesterday and shuffle into the bedroom. Hanging over the door is a knee-length red dress with a flirty skirt. I glance at Aaron and narrow my eyes at the shit-eating grin on his face.

“Humor me,” is all he says before opening the closet and pulling out a white shirt and black pants.

I blink a few times, watching him as he dries his powerful body. “What are you playing at, Aaron Stone?”

He looks up from his position, one knee on the bed, the towel wrapped around the thigh, and smiles. “Remember those plans I canceled last time we were here?”

“How could I forget?” I reply dryly.

He smirks. “I remade them, and it’s what we’re doing tonight.”

I glance from my dress to his clothes and back to his blue eyes. His lips curve even more before he turns around to dress.

I stand here, hugging my towel around my body with my hair dripping wet, and stare at his muscular back. If he thinks I missed that mischievous glint in his eyes, he’s mistaken.

What is he playing at indeed?

***

The Eiffel Tower at night is a sight to behold. The way it lights up, reflects onto the flowing water of the River Seine, and illuminates the dark night sky is something close to magical.

Aaron takes my hand and slowly pulls me toward the tower. I raise an eyebrow, but he says nothing, letting his feet do the talking as we get closer and closer.

“Are we going up?”

He smiles, and we enter the elevator that will take us to the top. I’m surrounded by the strong feeling of déjà vu. We did this once, the first time, and it was the night he told me he loved me.

Aaron squeezes my hand as we go up, and I gaze out at the city around me. At Notre Dame, the Champs-Élysées, the Louvre—all lit up in their own unique ways. The lights spread out in a romantic way no other city in the world can recreate, and I step into Aaron’s side. His arm goes around me, his lips brushing my temple, his touch warming through me.

“Dinner,” he whispers, leading me into the exclusive Le Jules Verne restaurant. The empty, exclusive Le Jules Verne restaurant.

Empty.

“You booked the whole place?” I look at him in awe.

“For you? Yes.” He leads me to a table in the corner, one that provides an uninterrupted view of the Louvre. One he knows I’ll love, and I do.

He pulls my chair out and I lower myself onto the seat, taking in the table. Candles. Wine. A beautifully printed and embossed menu.

Aaron pours two glasses while I sit here, overwhelmed. This is what he planned before? It’s no wonder he was pissed when he had to cancel. But still…

Every day, he amazes me a little more. This time, I admit, it’s the fact that he’s strolled in here and booked out the whole damn restaurant like he’s buying a stack of newspapers.

“Is this a special occasion I’ve missed?” I question, accepting the glass of wine.

“No.” He smiles. “It’s a just-because.” He lifts his menu, ending that line of questioning, and I can’t shake it.

Something is going on.

A server appears from nowhere and asks for our order. Aaron reels it off for both of us, which is good since I’ve only glanced at the menu and certainly not at the food list. He gets it perfect—of course he does—and looks out of the window.

I stare at him. I stare at him until my eyes hurt, wordlessly, until our food is brought out.

Even as I eat, I watch him, and after a while, he returns that gaze. Our eyes lock across the table but no words are exchanged, and I can see it. In his eyes. That glimmer that knows something I don’t. That betrays his ‘just-because’ excuse.