I laugh. “Toto’s very cute. But I run fast...”
“Ah, mademoiselle underestimates the dog. Toto knows every path in the Maures hills.” He pulls out a worn trail map, spreading it across the polished desk. “Here, let me show you...”
The map’s edges are soft with use. The concierge traces several possible routes with his finger, each marked with faded pencil. I lean closer, oddly comforted by this normal moment after last night’s surreal performance.
“This one is special.” He taps a winding path. “Very few tourists know it. Though perhaps mademoiselle would prefer the coastal route?”
“The hills sound perfect.” I need to get above this town, away from thoughts of Slayer and Valentina’s villa. “Thanks for offering Toto, but he’s so small. I’m not sure he can keep up.”
Toto’s ears prick as if he understood exactly what I said. His compact body vibrates before he springs into action. His little legs blur as he races to the fountain and back, precise as a military drill.
We laugh as he returns, a little doggy smile on his tan and white face.
“Here.” The concierge produces a small hotel tote. “Water and sunscreen. The morning fog can be deceiving. When the sun comes out, it will be strong.”
Toto’s entire body wiggles with triumph as he leads me toward a cobblestone path, pausing to make sure I follow.
“The trail begins just past the old church,” the concierge calls after us. “Toto knows the way.”
The morning air carries hints of sea salt and herbs as we wind through Saint-Tropez’s empty streets.
Toto trots ahead with purpose, his white tail like a signal flag. Early deliverymen nod as we pass, some calling greetings to the little terrier by name.
Past the old church, the path begins to climb. Ancient stone walls give way to wild vegetation, and the town falls away below us. My legs warm to the steady incline while Toto navigates each turn.
The view stretches forever, the Mediterranean glittering silver-blue in the dawn light. Somewhere down there is the yacht where we’ll all gather later, playing our roles for the press.
But up here, there’s only Toto’s quiet presence and the sound of my own breathing.
I feel real again.
Butterflies drift across our path, their wings catching sunlight. I slow my pace, not wanting to disturb their delicate dance. Toto matches my rhythm perfectly, as if reading my thoughts.
The trail curves sharply, and I see an enormous creature crossing our path.
After my shock wears away, I realize it’s a giant turtle.
The animal must be at least fifteen inches across, its shell a masterpiece of geometric patterns. It moves with deliberate dignity, like time means nothing at all.
My phone’s in my hand before I realize it as I try to capture this moment.
I’m so focused on framing the shot that at first I don’t hear the heavy footsteps approaching from around the bend.
When I do, my heart jumps as I realize I’m alone on a mountain trail with only a small dog to defend me. Toto’s ears prick up, but he doesn’t seem alarmed. Still, I find myself holding my breath as the runner appears.
Slayer.
He’s dressed simply—no Dark Prince costume, no silver chains. Just running shorts and a gray T-shirt dark with sweat. The Sam I remember, not Slayer.
The sight of him hits me harder than I expect. Lean and muscular, he moves with natural grace that has nothing to do with stage presence.
Sweat glistens on his collarbones, visible where his shirt clings to his chest. I force my eyes back to his face.
Seeming to recognize him, Toto leaps forward, putting his forepaws on Slayer’s muscular thigh.
“Bix,” Slayer says, sounding surprised. “How did you find this place?”
“The concierge recommended it.” I try to keep my voice steady, casual. Like my pulse isn’t racing from more than just the run. “I see you’ve met Toto.”
