The next day, I’m no closer to figuring anything out, and I’m still not fighting to hold back my excitement at the thought of getting away to Paris and building a new life for myself.
This is because there isn’t any. Excitement, that is.
I lay with my back to Jeremy, staring at the wall, wide awake but not ready to turn to face him yet—or even move.
When Jeremy wraps his arm around my waist and hauls me flush against him, I fight back my moan at how good it feels—how good it always feels—when he does it.
“Something’s wrong,” he murmurs against my hair.
For one second, I freeze, because I guess he must know.
Maybe he took a sneaky peek at my phone while I was sleeping. I mean, he did say he charged it while I was asleep, which means there was nothing to stop him from scrolling through
