Page 133 of Legally Mine

"Have you decided?" I asked, unable to help myself.

I hadn't pressured him much about the decision––in the last few weeks of studying for the bar exam, I honestly hadn't had time to think about it, and he hadn't mentioned it at all. But obviously, it was an issue that needed to be discussed, and soon.

Brandon shook his head, the small lines at his eyes crinkling as he frowned. "Not yet." He turned an awkward smile at me. "Although Cory has been riding my ass about it."

I masked a scowl at the mention of Cory, Brandon's would-be campaign manager. I hadn't spoken to him for long at the benefit last month, but I hadn't liked him very much. He was snippy and superior––basically the complete stereotype of someone who worked in politics. The idea that he would be a consistent presence in Brandon's life wasn't very appealing.

The agents announced that our plane was ready to board. Brandon took my hand with a squeeze that melted away all my reservations.

"It's time," he said. "Campaign stuff can wait. You ready for some downtime together?"

Was I ever.

I grinned. "Let's go."

~

Seven hours later, we arrived in Marseille. Five hours ahead of Boston, it was nine o'clock in the evening by the time the plane pulled to a stop on a private runway at the Marseille airport.

Brandon, as it happened, was incredibly well traveled. This shouldn't have surprised me, considering how extensive his business interests were, but it did. He always seemed like such a local boy dressed up in nice suits. So it was somewhat of a shock when he spoke to the customs officers in surprisingly decent French.

"And here I thought I was going to have to translate," I said as we were waved easily through the gate.

He looked down at me and flashed his thousand-watt grin. "I'm not fluent or anything, but I've at least learned to say thank you when I travel," he said.

He leaned in and kissed me, a long, lingering kiss that sent sparks down to the bottom of my toes.

"Welcome to France," he murmured against my lips.

I smiled into his embrace. "Bienvenue a France," I whispered. "Merci, monsieur."

Brandon leaned back with a sly grin. "Yeah, I'm gonna need you to do that some more, baby. Preferably naked."

My heart thrilled, and I practically skipped out toward the street where another car was waiting for us, swishing my hips a bit more than I normally would. "Avec ton plaisir, mon cher."

Brandon slammed a palm to his heart, watching me in faux pain. "You're killing me, Red. Let's get you inside before I molest you in front of customs agents."

"They won't care," I said. "They're French."

~

We pulled up in front of a house that belonged to Mark Grove, the other name partner at Brandon's law firm. I didn't know Grove well, having only seen his brusque face occasionally while I had served as an intern at the firm last year, but for some reason, the fact that he was a Francophile surprised me.

"Big time," Brandon said when I said as much. "He comes here every chance he gets. All of his wives have been French too."

"Wives?" I asked. "Just how many has he had?"

Brandon chuckled. "Oh, I don't know. Four or five, I think." He gave a sheepish shrug, like he was embarrassed on his partner's behalf. "What can I say? He's a better attorney than a husband, I guess."

"I guess," I echoed.

Brandon unlocked the door to the villa and walked inside, hefting our bags up a short flight of stairs that led us directly into the living room. Huge by European standards, the house was fairly small in contrast to Brandon's properties, with most of the first floor taken up by the living area and adjacent kitchen.

But the house made up for its lack of space with opulence; it was absolutely stunning. Done in the typical Mediterranean style of stucco exteriors and pink clay roof tiles outside, the interior was light and airy, floored with pinkish Spanish tile in an open design that made the most of the limited space by allowing the kitchen, living room, and dining area to flow together in one high-ceilinged room, punctuated by carefully chosen modern furniture. Gauzy drapes floated over picture windows at the far end of the living room, which looked out onto a wood-framed pool and a view of Chateau d'If, the sixteenth-century island fortress that was the setting for the Count of Monte Cristo.

Brandon came to stand behind me as I gazed out at the view, entranced by the moonlight flickering across the Mediterranean, glittering on the white hulls of the boats bobbing in the harbor. A gull sounded somewhere in the distance, and I sighed as Brandon slipped his hands around my waist and pulled me against his tall, strong form.

"All human wisdom is contained in these two words, 'Wait and Hope'," he quoted softly as we looked out to the harbor.