So he does sleep.

I lay on my side for a minute after waking up. The exhaustion from last night had hit me fast and hard, and I remembered falling asleep with Julian in bed with me. For the first hour I drifted in and out, I knew he was awake, because he would murmur something to me or brush his hand through my hair. In my half-conscious fog, I remembered being convinced the man didn’t sleep.

That’s how you go from normal hard-working guy to billionaire. Zero hours of sleep a night.

I recalled stirring at three in the morning and being alone in bed. At six o’clock, it was the same thing.

So waking up at eight-thirty next to Julian in nothing but a pair of sweatpants was a bit of a shock. It was like spotting a shooting star. That lean six-pack aside, it was striking to see him simply resting for once, and just being human. There was the slightest, slightest natural smile on his smooth, pink lips, and it made me laugh to myself to think that Julian Hoult actually smiled more in his sleep than in his day-to-day life.

To avoid staring at him forever like a crazy person, I eventually dragged myself out of bed. I set my feet carefully on the hardwood, expecting to feel a bit of a lag or a haze, or some sort of emotional hangover from last night.

But I felt nothing.

I just felt… good.

Despite going to bed with a smile on my lips, I didn’t expect to wake up happy. Confessing everything to Julian last night had been a roller coaster. At some points, I felt dread and fear for what he was learning about me. At others, I felt almost the same exhilaration I felt when I was on the bike with him.

I felt open. And free.

Light on my feet, in his white T-shirt and my blue panties, I wandered the beautiful house I hadn’t had the chance to soak in last night. It was actually too big for me to explore every room of, and I had little interest anyway after finding the floor-to-ceiling wall of books in the living room.

There had to be a thousand of them. Maybe more. The shelves stretched even around the corners of the wall, with a polished wooden ladder attached. My hungry eyes scanned over the spines of probably a hundred books before landing upon one that made me smile, because it was the only one with bookmarks sticking out of its pages.

The French Language: Idioms and Phrases.

I couldn’t help grabbing it. It was the morning’s second piece of adorable evidence that Julian Hoult was in fact human. He didn’t know how to speak French, and he wanted to learn. Simple as that.

I imagined it was for the purpose of business, considering the resort in Biarritz, which was of course on the French side of Basque Country. So plucking it from the shelf, I headed for the porch outside, toward the vintage porch swing that had been calling my name since I spotted it out the window. Padding over in my bare feet, I sunk back into the luxurious pillows, a little grin on my lips. The trip to Biarritz was the day after tomorrow.

But within the first few bookmarks I peeked at, I realized Julian had not purchased this book for the purpose of work.

My eyes unblinking, I flipped through, mentally collecting all the phrases he had saved to learn.

I miss you.

I think about you.

I love you more than you know.

I breathed in deep.

Okay, Sara. I reminded myself it wasn’t a big deal – that all adults had dating histories. It was just part of life. But then I remembered what Julian had said to me barely eight hours ago, before I allowed myself to tell him everything.

“I care about you more than I’ve ever cared about another woman.”

I couldn’t help but doubt that with these bookmarks sitting in my lap. I couldn’t even deny they were his. He had notes scrawled around in that perfect handwriting I’d come to memorize in my time at his office. And if that weren’t proof enough, a loose piece of pressed flower stationery fell out from the next page.

It was a letter written in neat but swirling cursive, and it was entirely in French.

The only word I recognized was Biarritz.

“Morning.”

Julian’s voice prompted my sharp gasp. Clasping my heart, I looked up to find him standing on the porch in front of me, the sun beating down on his wide, muscled shoulders, and his glimmering blue eyes staring down at me.

“Morning,” I returned, a tinge of guilt in my voice. I glanced down at the French book. “I thought it was for work purposes,” I explained, my voice tight. “I didn’t realize it was…”

“What?” Julian challenged lightly. “What is it that you think you’re looking at right now?” he asked. I swallowed.

“Remnants of a very passionate affair.”

“No.” He gave a short laugh. “For the most part, you’re wrong.”

“For the most part?” My brow twitched. The porch swing swayed lightly with the faintest squeaking as I sat there cross-legged, gazing curiously up at Julian’s unreadable expression. “Will you tell me the story behind it?” I finally asked.

The only giveaway of the deep breath he took was the heavy rise and fall of his sculpted chest.

“Yes,” he answered. “But we’re going to need to get breakfast first.”