Page 33 of Shades of Ruin (Sharp Edges Duet #2)

Chapter Twenty-Five

GREYSON

A ngélica has a very uncomfortable overnight flight on a sore, bruised ass that has her tossing and turning in her seat the whole way there.

If I was kind, I would have gone a little easier on her, knowing that she’d be forced to sit for eight straight hours.

Instead, the thought of her having to sit on that pretty ass for our whole flight to Paris made me hit her just a little bit harder. And yes, I know I’m a dick.

Sophie left me her boulangerie, Le Fournil—the first kitchen I ever called home.

She wrote me into her goddamn will like I was the son she never had.

Her exact words, according to the solicitor, were that she wanted to “keep it in the family.” That’s another reason why her death has ripped me apart.

It’s a reminder that she was the first family who thought I was worth anything.

She kept me close and taught me and cared for me even when she had no obligation to give a fuck about some orphaned kid from Chicago.

Even though she’d never admit it, she had the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever known.

I’m not prepared to face Le Fournil without the woman who made it everything, so I take Angélica to all the special spots I’ve discovered over years of living in the best city in the world.

We rent bikes and cycle to the Place de la République.

We sit along the square across from the statue of Marianne and people watch, creating little stories for the ones who interest us as they pass.

I imagine each of mine as serial killers in hiding who all have absurd weapons of choice.

The older lady walking her Pomeranian around the square likes to asphyxiate her victims with a vintage Chanel scarf, Chanel N°5 the last thing they smell before they die.

The twenty-something kid with green hair skating circles around the statue likes to stalk his online gaming partners and strangle them with a computer charging cable.

The middle-aged business man wearing a full suit likes to use office scissors to impale the asses of men who’ve fucked him over in the corporate world until they bleed out.

It’s dark, but when am I ever not?

Angélica’s stories have more of a romantic melancholy to them—destined soulmates who pass each other every day without ever meeting, lovers who have grown to live as strangers, broken hearts that will never heal.

The City of Love has left my angel with the urge to play hopeless matchmaker, apparently.

When it starts to get too hot beneath the full sun, I take Angélica to a small cafe terrace with a few outdoor tables and chairs that are shaded beneath a black and white striped awning.

This cafe happens to have some of the best crêpes and galettes on this side of the city.

I order my usual ham, egg, and cheese galette.

Unsurprisingly, Angélica goes sweet with a chocolate and strawberry crêpe topped with vanilla ice cream.

I love feeding my angel delicious food and watching her brown eyes spark with pleasure as the flavors set her taste buds alight.

It’s an orgasmic experience watching her pink tongue swipe over her lips and lick away dribbles of ice cream.

My stiff cock is showing its appreciation beneath the table, and I’m going to have to find some way to get this damn erection down before we get up to leave.

“I love it here,” Angélica sighs when she’s finally licked her plate clean of every crumb.

“I thought you might.” I tug my napkin from my lap and set it on my empty plate. “There’s nothing quite like Paris in early summer before it gets too hot.”

“I didn’t think that it would live up to the way it’s portrayed in films and postcards, but it really is perfect. I could stay here forever.” She takes a sip from her after-lunch espresso, and I wish I could lick the coffee from her lips.

“What do you say, angel? Should we tell everyone and everything back in Chicago to fuck off and make this our new home?”

If she says yes, I’ll do it in an instant.

“Sounds heavenly,” she hums. “But we probably shouldn’t leave Grey’s without its culinary genius.”

I ignore the flare of disappointment in my chest when she reminds me of my real-world responsibilities.

“Probably not,” I muse. I drain the last of my espresso and wave down the waiter for the bill.

“How would you like to see the place that made me want to become a chef?” I ask, bracing myself for the vulnerability of showing her such an important piece of my past.

“Yes, please,” she answers with a soft smile. “Let’s see where Chef Greyson was born.”

There’s now a hollow emptiness in the closed boulangerie that never saw a day when it wasn’t crowded with people lined up to eat Sophie du Maurier’s freshly made pastries and baguettes.

Le Fournil de Sophie is nothing without her.

I run my fingers across the wooden counter where she showed me how to roll croissants for the first time.

I was a broken kid looking for a home and a purpose, and she gave me both. She let me stay in her second bedroom until I could afford my own place, she paid me for my work even though I had no experience at all, and she kept me fed, busy, and happy.

“It’s smaller than I expected,” Angélica says as she trails her fingers across the counter behind me. “Learning culinary in Paris always sounded so posh, but you were back here in this tiny kitchen covered in flour and butter while you laminated dough every day.”

“Pretty much,” I laugh in response. “Although size has very little to do with excellence in Paris. The smallest of alleyway restaurants can have the very best of food. There have been plenty of times that Le Fournil’s line was out the door and two blocks down because Sophie makes the best croissants in the whole 1st arrondissement.

” I catch myself before revising, “Made the best croissants.”

“Are you okay?” Angélica comes up behind me and wraps her arms around my neck. “I know it’s hard to be here without her.”

“I’m fine.” It’s not a complete lie now that I have the comfort of Angélica’s arms. “It’s just difficult to accept that she's really gone. ”

“Will you reopen the boulangerie?”

“I don’t see how it could function without her. I sure as hell can’t make pastries like she did. I don’t think anyone can, so the essence of Le Fournil would be lost without her.”

“So what will you do?”

“Hold onto it until I think of the best way to honor her memory. There’s an apartment above it that we can use whenever we visit Paris. I’ve never actually bought my own place here, so this is the first property I’ve owned in the city.”

“We’ll come to visit again, then?” she asks hopefully.

“Of course.” I turn her around so I can take her into my arms and squeeze her tightly. “Wouldn’t dream of keeping you away from the city you’ve fallen in love with in one afternoon. I’ll bring you back whenever you like.”

“So romantic,” she laughs with a peck on my cheek.

“Romance is my middle name,” I tease as I kiss her back on the lips.

“Wait, what is your middle name? I don’t think I’ve ever asked.”

“Gideon. My father really fucked me over with the G’s.”

“Gavin Gideon Greyson,” she says, trying it out. “It suits you.”

“When you say it, it does, but it’s a fucking mouthful. I’d much rather you be screaming Grey in that breathy little voice while you come on my cock.”

“Stop it,” she scolds, shoving me away. “You’re not getting me horny in the sacred kitchen that your dearly departed mentor taught you to roll croissants in.”

“Then why don’t I take you to a kitchen that I’ve already desecrated in every way imaginable?” I purr, my blood pumping with the urge to show her where my darkness was born. “Want to see the restaurant that taught me how to be cutthroat in every sense of the word? ”

Her brown eyes flash with hunger and desire as she trails her fingers across my chest and down my abs before she stops right at my belt. “Is that even a question?”

“Javi is going to love you,” I laugh while capturing her wayward hands and steering her out of Sophie’s kitchen. “Ever heard of Dix, angel?”

I’m able to steal a table from an unfortunate couple on Dix’s prominent guest list for tonight.

They likely waited a few months at the very least to get in, but I have considerable sway in the Parisian culinary community.

And it helps that I’m best friends with the sous chef.

Javi took over the kitchen at Dix after I left, and he’s done a pretty damn good job with the menu since.

Angélica and I enjoy a ten-course meal along with a few off-menu selections courtesy of the kitchen. She raves about every dish to the point that I get a little jealous watching her stuff Javi’s food into her mouth and moan with every bite.

After we finish, I order a vintage bottle of Bordeaux from Chateau Lafite Rothschild, one of the most prestigious wineries in the world.

We have a few glasses as we wait for the other patrons to slowly dwindle down until we’re sitting in an empty dining room with a few staff cleaning tables and floors.

After deciding that I’ve given Javi enough time to get the kitchen in order, I stand to my feet. “Time to see the chef responsible for your over-expressive pleasure at the dinner table tonight.”

“Over-expressive?” she scoffs, her brows knitting in a scowl.

“You heard me.” I lean down and press my lips to her ear, keeping my voice low so none of the staff can hear me.

“The only thing that should have you moaning that loudly when your mouth is filled is my cock. And I fully intend on reminding you of that tonight when I take you home and fuck you on the balcony beneath the bright city lights for anyone to see.”

She swallows hard, a sudden, heated mixture of anger and arousal coursing through her body. “You wouldn’t.”