Around ten a.m. I actually check my phone. There are three missed calls from Craig, two from the head of production, and one from a number that’s almost definitely a gossip columnist’s burner. I take a deep breath, dial Craig, and try not to say anything idiotic when he answers.
“Well,” he says, “I assume you’re alive, because whatever hellscape of debauchery you and Emma got up to last night is all anyone on the internet is talking about.”
“We just had dinner,” I say. “And fell asleep early. I’m wholesome now.”
He snorts. “TMZ has you two making out in the middle of Rue de Rivoli, and someone got a shot of her lipstick on your neck. The comments section is… spirited.”
Emma makes a face at me across the table, bites into her croissant, and mouths, “Wholesome?” I stifle a laugh.
“Can you get ahead of it?” I ask. “Or do I have to do the morning shows?”
“Both,” Craig says, with the grim satisfaction of someone who loves the game more than he’d admit. “There’s a presser at noon. Your job is to look hot and in love and keep your hands mostly above the table.”
I look at Emma, who’s found the same photos on Instagram and is grinning at the phone like a cat. “Don’t worry,” I say, “I’ve got the easiest co-star in Paris.”
After I hang up, I lean back in my chair and just watch her. She’s scanning the internet with the curiosity of someone famous long enough to love and hate it. Her hair is still a mess, my t-shirt off one shoulder, mouth painted with hotel jam. She catches me staring, puts her phone down.
“Are you going to survive brunch with Jean-Paul Bressard and his army of publicists?” she asks.
I sigh. “It’s either that, or get blacklisted from every film between here and Cannes. But I’d rather stay in the suite and see how many times I can make you come before room service cuts us off.”
She nearly spits out her coffee and sets the mug down with a clatter. “Is that a threat or a promise?”
“A public service,” I say, and stand, pulling her up by the wrist. She laughs, half protesting as she tries to shield her leg with the hem of the T-shirt; I hoist her onto the table, slide a hand up her thigh, and kiss her so hard the croissant crumbles between us.
“Don’t,” she says, voice low. “Don’t make me go out there and pretend we’re saints.”
“Fine,” I say, “but only if you let me fuck you first.”
She cups my jaw in her hands and pulls my mouth to hers, and the taste of jam and coffee and her tongue is so heady I nearly forget where we are.
We do make it to brunch, barely. We even make it look good—her in a black suit that looks painted on, me in a cashmere sweater that hides the new love bites on my chest. We do an hour of thinly veiled threats and opportunities with Bressard, his A-list wife, and two streaming execs who are clearly competing to see who can flirt with Emma more shamelessly. She carries itall with grace, with wit. I sit back and watch her command the room.
After, in the car, she tugs my hand onto her lap and says, “You know, you never told me what you really want.”
I study her profile, the sharp angle of her cheekbone, the bruised softness at her mouth where I kissed her too hard.
“I want this,” I say. “You. Me. And for none of it to be a fucking lie. I want to prove everyone wrong.”
She goes quiet for a block, thoughtful. “I want that too,” she says, and looks out the window, city lights painting her eyes a hundred shades of gold.
We get back to the Ritz around sunset. For a minute, I think she’s going to say something profound, but she just yanks me out of the car by my sleeve, laughing.
Upstairs, in the elevator, she runs her hands through my hair and says, “Every woman who saw you today wanted to fuck you.”
I press her against the walnut paneling, hands at her waist. “Every man in Paris wanted you.”
She smirks. “Maybe we let them watch next time.”
We’re only half-joking. There’s such a voltage in her that it feels plausible. As if we could do anything, say anything, survive whatever the world throws at us next.
The doors open, thank God, before I do anything stupid. We barely make it to the suite. The second the door shuts, she’s on me, mouth fierce, hands up under my shirt. I turn us, slam her against the back of the door, and grind my hips into her until she groans.
She kisses me hungrily. “I want you to ruin me.”
I haul her up with both hands, her legs wrapping around my back, and stagger us to the bedroom without breaking the kiss. Our clothes come off in a chaotic blur: jacket, sweater, her blouse, her bra—everything landing in a trail from foyer to bed. The last scrap, the perfect black underwear, I leave in place soI can snap it against her hip with my teeth. She arches up, hair wild on the pillow, and just looks at me, eyes dark.
“Why does it feel like this?” she says. “Why do you make me insane?”
