Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
“Wow . . . this place looks like Madam Puddifoot’s!”
“Madam huh?” I ask, and Autumn blushes. “What?
“Uhm, Madam Puddifoot? From Harry Potter? In Hogsmeade Village?”
“You like Harry Potter?” I reply with a chuckle. “I saw the movies when I was a child, but I haven’t thought of them much since, I suppose.”
Autumn’s smile is bright as she admits, “I love them. I watch all eight movies at least once a year and lost count of how many times I’ve read the books years ago. But the first time I read them was with my mom, and we both fell in love with the stories.”
“Who’s your favorite? Harry?”
She scrunches up her face in slight distaste and shakes her head. “No, my favorite was always Hermione. Smart and beautiful, and that dress! But thank you for not making the Weasley joke.” She takes a lock of her red hair, flipping it around.
The staff is waiting for us when we go in, and we are quickly and respectfully ushered to the curtained off back section. I slip a tip to the maître’d , reiterating in a quiet, firm voice that we are not to be disturbed.
“Oui, Monsieur,” the maître’d whispers, but I grip his hand tighter, refusing to let him pull away just yet.
“Under any circumstances,” I clarify. “I do not care if Macron himself comes in.”
The maître’d stares into my eyes, fear dawning as he sees I am not fucking around. No matter what, I do not want a repeat of what happened at the club during my first conversation with Autumn. Not only would it upset her, but it would take a giant shit on any progress I am making with her.
And that will not do.
While being hounded by females in public comes with the territory of my job and my fame, all of that can be put off for a while as I get to know Autumn. She’s my priority.
“So did the D get the message?” Autumn asks wryly when we get to the table. I raise my brows in question, and she explains, “I’ve been in New York long enough to see the game.”
“We’ll hopefully have our privacy,” I reply.
“That would be so hard for me to get used to,” Autumn says quietly.
“What would?” I ask. “Being famous?”
“Yeah. Being recognized anywhere you go, being mobbed unexpectedly . . .” Autumn takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “But thank you. I don’t think I could deal with another invasion of the Ho Patrol.”
I snicker at her terminology. “You don’t have to worry.”
The maître’d has pulled out Autumn’s chair, but I take his place and he steps away delicately. “Allow me.”
She smiles at the gesture, blushing a little when I take her napkin and lay it in her lap. Going over to my seat, I sit down, close enough to place my hand over hers on the tabletop. She looks at my hand and then deeply into my eyes.
“I want to feel your touch,” I say unapologetically.
In response, she turns her palm up, holding my hand back. For such a small movement, it feels like a big step.
Our waiter comes over, and I order for both of us in French.
“Not much on women’s lib?” Autumn questions snidely as he leaves, and I grin. “What?”
“I told our waiter to put our fate in the hands of the chef and for him to hit us with his best shot,” I reply. “So neither of us is liberated for this dinner.”
Her laugh is music to my ears, and for the first time, this truly feels like a date.
Truth be told, I don’t date often despite what any paparazzi or tabloids might say. Yes, I have dinner with models, but more often than not, what is construed as my latest conquest in a line of women is merely a meeting to discuss future work. Or friends catching up over a meal. My work colleagues are simply a bit more attractive than the common office dweller.
“You said you read the Potter books with your mom. Are you two close?” I venture.
Her hum is noncommittal. “I love my mom, truly. She’s a great woman. But she wears blinders sometimes, at least when it comes to me.” I rub my thumb along the fleshy part of her thumb, encouraging her to continue, and after a moment, she does. “It was just me and her for a while, us against the world. She wanted . . . wants me to be happy, but she doesn’t understand that the things that make her happy would make me want to rip my hair out and scream like a banshee. So of course, the things that excite me terrify her. You should’ve heard the things she said about my going to New York for school.” She turns her voice harsh and higher pitched, mimicking, “They’re going to eat you alive out there, and you’ll come running home with your tail tucked between your legs. I know you like sewing, but being a designer is more than sewing a straight stitch.”