“You know enough to love me.”
I shivered because I was in his arms and those were good words.
“But I don’t know the little things,” I stressed.
“The little things are little for a reason. You know what’s at the heart of me, do you need to know what my favorite colour is?”
“Yes,” I said, immediately. “What is it?”
“Giselle…” he said, partly exasperated, partly amused.
“Sinclair…” I mocked him.
There was laughter in his voice when he said, “I’m partial to Titian red.”
I blushed as his fingers filtered through my hair. I’d known he loved my hair and it didn’t take a genius to see he was into redheads given he had also been with Elena.
Which led me to my next question. “How many lovers have you had?”
He burst out laughing.
Seriously.
One second we were lying with me tucked into his side, my arm around his belly and his hand around my waist, languid and cuddling. The next, he was frozen mid-crunch, his stomach rock hard beneath my hand and his entire body jerking so much with laughter that my body was thrown off his.
I was so surprised I just stared at him.
When he was finally finished except for the odd chuckle, there were tears at the corners of his eyes.
“Are you quite finished?” I asked, a little enthralled because I had never seen him laugh so hard but also annoyed, because what I had asked wasn’t funny.
“Oh, Elle,” he chuckled before reaching over to tug me back into his side.
I resisted.
He sighed around his smile but gave in, crossing his arms behind his head. I tried not to notice how his biceps bulged and his abs drew taught.
“Do not be angry with me, mon amour. I was only laughing because you bring me so much joy.”
“Yeah, right,” I muttered, swinging upright so I could cross my legs and fold my arms over my chest.
He bit back a laugh, a chuckle rumbling around stuck in his chest.
“You would really like to know how many lovers I’ve had?”
“Yes.”
“Fourteen.”
He searched my face for my reaction but I was surprisingly relieved. Fourteen wasn’t a massive number and I realized as soon as he spoke the words, that I wouldn’t feel any jealousy about the number. Sinclair and I were different. He loved me so much that he’d left his orderly life and perfect partner for me, an inexperienced artist.
“Okay,” I said as I dropped down at his side again. “What’s your favorite meal?”
His arm instantly slid around me again, securing me firmly to his side. His squeeze told me that he was happy with my reaction to his confession.
“Anything with duck.”
“I love duck too!”
I couldn’t see his face but I knew he smiled.
“Who are your favorite musicians?”
“Elle, it’s been a very long day and as much as I would love to play twenty questions with you, I also have to be up in four hours to be on site.”
“Okay,” I said, a little disappointed.
Sin’s hand slid up from my waist into the hair at the back of my head, curling it into his fist so that he could tug my head back in order to look at me.
“We have time now, Elle. There is no need to rush.”
Emotion surged up my throat so just to be safe, I didn’t open my mouth to speak. Instead, I nodded.
His other hand slid out from behind his head so that he could gently run his fingers down my jaw. “All the time in the world,” he emphasized.
It might have been wistful thinking, but I believed him.
Chapter Five.
When I woke up the next morning, Sinclair was gone. I vaguely remembered him pressing a kiss to my hair before getting out of bed but the jet lag had lulled me into a deep, dreamless sleep and I couldn’t wake up enough to give him a proper goodbye.
There was soft music playing throughout the suite, a throaty French voice that I recognized as Jacques Brel. I stretched the lingering laziness out of my muscles before I rolled out of bed to investigate. A shiny silver iPod was plugged into a dock on the antique roll out desk with a note tipped against it.
Any self-respecting Frenchman loves Jacques. Any teenage French boy listens to English pop so I also admit to at one point loving the Backstreet Boys and Christina Aguilera. Now, I listen mostly to jazz, as you know; Miles Davis, Frank Sinatra, Nora Jones and Diana Krall. I compiled a playlist while you slept last night.
I grinned down at the note. Even though I knew what he said last night about knowing the important things about him was right, I still longed to know the trivialities, the quirks and fears and desires that made Sinclair the love of my life.
I listened to the eclectic playlist as I showered in the gorgeous wood paneled bathroom, shaking my booty to Britney Spear’s Oops, I Did It Again, before crooning along to Edith Piaf’s La Vie On Rose.