Page 101 of Jude

Weeks of living in limbo handled in four minutes by a tired bureaucrat.

I walked back out to the lobby where Nari waited.

My hands shook as I shoved the papers into my tote bag.

‘Done?’ Nari asked, standing up.

‘Submitted,’ I said. ‘He didn’t even ask how we met.’

‘Told you. Nothing to worry about.’

We caught a cab back to the hotel.

Upstairs in our suite, Jude’s bedroom door stayed shut.

He was still out cold, sleeping off the international transit, a punishing bump-in and a grueling first-night show.

Nari squeezed my shoulder before heading down to her own room.

‘Get some rest and let’s wait for good news.’

I kicked off my heels and ordered room service from the tablet on the desk: two club sandwiches, French fries, coffee and coffee.

When the food arrived, I ate at the small round table on the terrace outside, bare legs on the stone railing.

The bread was crisp, the filling seasoned with fresh tarragon, my drink hot and sublime.

A door creaked open behind me. Jude sauntered into the living area wearing black cotton pajama bottoms, his bare chest a display of ink and rippling muscles.

So freakin’ sexy.

He rubbed his stubbled jaw, his eyes sleep-heavy as he headed outside and dragged a chair next to mine.

He reached over, snatching a fry from my plate.

‘Hey, you’ve got your tray,’ I groused.

He threw me a sloppy grin before tracking to the inside table and retrieving the food I ordered for him.

He returned and settled in to eat.

‘How’d it go at the embassy, babe?’

‘Submitted,’ I said. ‘No deportation. No federal holding cells yet.’

Jude leaned in, pressing his lips to my temple.

His skin was warm, giving off his evocative musk, cedarwood soap and bed sheets.

‘Never had a doubt,’ he muttered.

He glanced out toward the sunny outline of the Champs-Élysées, then back at me, legs up, feet bare, skirt riding high, silk shirt loose, hair down.

His eyes smoldered.

‘Paris suits you. Wish I could linger with you.’

He finished his coffee, then stood to get ready.