mention the white picket fence.
This is the typical brother’s best friend/best friend’s sister book. Guy doesn’t want to break Bro Code. Girl doesn’t want her brother mad. So they don’t tell him. Brilliant plan *eyeroll*.
Honestly, most of the book is actually pretty good, if a little dependent on romance novel cliches. But here is one scene in the last half where Lizzie really loses me. Luckily she realizes what she is potentially doing and doesn’t do the thing (so vague, I know, but more info would be spoilery). And this is the only thing I didn’t like about the book.
What did I like? I liked how Spencer jumped right in and took care of Lizzie when she needed it -even when she didn’t realize she needed it. I loved that he called his sister for advice on what to do for Lizzie. I liked that they really “got” each other. Their chemistry was off the charts. And I loved Lizzie’s friend Sophia.
black pumps, and nothing else.
usually the sort of girl to go out of her way to impress a guy—she’d never had
anyone worth the effort before. But boy, was Amaury worth the effort. At least
that’s what she told herself every single, terrifying moment there was a bump
or quick turn on the metro that threatened to send her toppling forward, giving
her fellow passengers a more intimate glimpse than any stranger on public transport
should ever see.
actually quite difficult to get to from Paris. For Lizzie, at least. She’d
never had to worry too much about public transport where she grew up, and to be
honest, thanks to her generous trust fund, shouldn’t really have to bother with
it here. But when she’d moved to Paris, she had wanted the starving-artist
experience. There was no way she could write a masterpiece of the likes of
Hemingway or Fitzgerald if she was living it up like some sort of luxury travel
blogger. She needed to live a Paris city life in all its glory, inconveniences
two-train journey from central Paris to a quiet street on the outskirts of
Versailles, praying that an errant wind didn’t put her ass on display to Metro
the train, holding a little box with his favorite pastries from that shop he
loved in Montparnasse. She turned her mind to Amaury to ease her nerves during
the walk from the station. It was six months since their first date, six months
since he’d swept her off her feet and made her move to Paris unforgettable.
sun-kissed and those striking gray eyes, he was one of the most gorgeous men
she had ever seen, with a French accent thrown in for good measure.
herself when she eventually reached his street. Whenever she thought of him,
she felt a rush of pure warmth flood her system. He was exactly what she’d
fantasized about when she dreamed of finding love in Paris… Older, commanding,
mysterious. And so sexy. So unapologetically French.
her jacket when she reached the picket fence outside his house. They didn’t
usually meet up here. Amaury was a successful lawyer and based in Paris, so
he’d bought a little apartment there for when he didn’t feel like commuting,
which was most of the time. He preferred the city; he thought it was so
romantic. Lizzie agreed. That’s why they always spent the night there when they
saw each other. The only time she’d been to his house in Versailles was once,
after a spontaneous message, instructing her to pack a bag and set aside a
weekend… But even then he’d only popped into the house to grab a few things for
himself and then they drove off toward the wineries in the south.
course. That was the point of a surprise. But she knew he was here this
morning; he always was on Sundays. Anyway, she didn’t think he’d mind; she was
doing something special for him and it was their anniversary, for crying out
anniversary of their first date, not the moment they’d decided to commit to one
another. Not that there had actually been
a moment like that; they’d never had “the talk”—they didn’t need to. It was
obvious from the moment he told her he loved her, and that he’d never met a
woman as captivating, as magnifique,
as her. Lizzie wasn’t exactly lacking in self-confidence; she didn’t need the
poor man to spell out the words be my
girlfriend for her to validate their relationship. She could be mature
about it all.
strutting forward through the gate. “Just do it.”
hair a bit, then walked up to the door and pressed the bell. Lizzie fidgeted
and rocked on her heels; she must have switched positions five times in an
attempt to somehow land on one that was casual yet sexy. She would be content
to find a position that halfway achieved that.
stopped as the door swung fully open.
parler avec Papa?” a small, pajama-clad boy piped up, standing at the
threshold. He looked about six years old, with a tuft of dark brown hair and
piercing gray eyes that looked just Amaury’s.
so flawless, her face looked like it had been sculpted by freaking angels,
asked in heavily accented English as she joined the boy.
see. “I think I have the wrong—”
She knew the voice that asked, “Who is it?” in French. It was Amaury’s. But
that couldn’t be right. He lived alone. This couldn’t be his house. She must
have confused it with a neighbor. Lizzie took a step back and glanced toward
the house next door. It didn’t look like Amaury’s. Maybe his neighbors were
just visiting his place?
palace. I’ll help her out. Why don’t you go put Nicolas to bed?” Amaury’s voice
rapidly fired off in French, cutting through Lizzie’s haze. He deftly stepped
in front of the woman and child then closed the door behind him.
finger was a gold band she’d never seen before.
She’d never heard his voice so hard.
quite believing this was really happening. She hoped he didn’t hear the tremble
in her voice.
his long, elegant hands grabbed onto her shoulders. “What were you thinking,
showing up here? If my wife found out—”
pushed him away. “Your wife? Your
wife! You didn’t think that was an important thing to mention to your girlfriend?”
“Girlfriend? You think you’re my girlfriend, cherie?” He laughed harder. “Oh, Americans.”
blurred. She felt sick. Ruined. He had a family? What the fuck? She was a mistress? The other woman? Lizzie gulped
down the acid that rose in her throat. This couldn’t be happening.
things to get a woman in bed.” He laughed some more. “Did you think you were
the only one I fucked in that apartment?”
out. They stuck in her throat, choking her.
was finished with her. With his hand still on the brass handle, he glanced back
over his shoulder at her.
order filed against you.”
Ashton is a contemporary romance author, and self-confessed book addict. She
loves to read anything from contemporary, to paranormal, to historical: you
publish it, Gabrielle will read it!
not writing about her favorite romance tropes in gorgeously exotic locations,
Gabrielle studies law and also works as a television producer. On any given day
she wakes up at three in the morning for work, fits in a few classes at
university then comes home and writes.
grew up in Australia, has lived in Paris, and now resides in Sydney with her
boyfriend, two dogs and cat. Although, said boyfriend is making a strong case
for a pet bird.