“Okay, Miss Defensive,” he teased. “Show me.”
We wandered the gallery, looking at leather pouches and silk reticules, at bags made of paper and plastic and linen.
“Men used to carry purses, too,” I said. “Before their clothes got pockets in the seventeenth century.”
We ambled through displays of sleek bags, shaped bags, bags in every shade and texture. Purses decorated with feathers, beads, and embroidery, or embellished with buckles and chains. Trey was a good listener, leaning forward a little as I chattered about fabrics and designers.
I broke off abruptly. “I must be boring you.”
“Nope.” He smiled at me with his eyes, with his whole face, and... Wow. That was some smile. I flushed like a girl with her first crush. Which, of course, I was.
On our way out, Trey led me through the antiquities exhibit toward the great hall. Under the arched and vaulted ceiling, he stopped. I shivered. Because... There she was. Nike,Winged Victory, poised halfway up the stairs.
Her impact was irresistible, inescapable—the tits-out headless torso of Samothrace. That stupid boob shot from high school wasbehind me, but I could hardly bear to look at her. So beautiful, so hopeful, so broken.
“She reminds me of you,” Trey said quietly.
My blood ran cold. I was sure—almost sure—he’d never seen me with my boobies out, exposed and inadequate. But everything posted online was public. Permanent. And Bunyan was like the Internet. Your past followed you forever. In Bunyan, I would be Easy A until I died.
“What do you mean?”
“Fearless,” he said. “About to take off.”
Tears stung my eyes. Was that really how he saw me?
“You okay?” he asked.
I smiled at him through my tears. “Never better.”
We went out into the gardens. The sun warmed the air, releasing the scent of the grass and the starch in his shirt and his good, male Trey-smell. Puffy white clouds chased each other across the blue sky.
I sighed. “What a perfect day.”
“It’s been fun.”
“We ought to head back. If we want to get a spot for the fireworks.”
“Let’s eat first.”
“I should have packed a picnic.”
Trey smiled. “I have a better idea. Let’s go to my hotel.”
The air thickened. The sun was suddenly hot, spreading warmth from the top of my head to my toes. I could say yes. I’d said yes to other guys, lots of times. But the other guys had never been Trey. The stakes had never been this high before.
“There’s a restaurant on the roof that serves dinner,” Trey added.
“That sounds...”Dangerous. Tempting.“Great,” I said.
This was Trey, I scolded myself as we walked to his hotel. My sister’s boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Practically a brother.
But Myself wasn’t listening.
The hotel was on a swanky, tree-lined avenue near the Arc de Triomphe. The foyer looked like something out of a movie with black-and-white marble floors and wood-paneled walls lined with mirrors and oil paintings. We rode the elevator to the terrace.
“Wow. That is some view,” I said.
The rooftops of Paris spread out below, wrapped in a golden haze. The Eiffel Tower rose on the horizon, dark against the caramel sky.
