She smiled.
He reached over and gently tugged the bag from her hands. “You’ll freeze your fingers. Put your gloves back on.”
Bea let him take it. “You’re bossy when it’s cold.”
“I’m bossy when it’s necessary.”
They kept walking. Snow crunched beneath their boots. Light from a firelit café spilled across the sidewalk as they passed.
“Have you decided?”
She didn’t pretend not to understand. “Not yet.”
They walked a few more steps before he asked, “What’s holding you back?”
“I don’t even know,” she admitted, looking at the snowy road ahead of them. “Sometimes I feel like I’m two people.”
“Maybe you’re just one person that’s changing.”
She glanced at him. He held her gaze, but something else flitted behind it. Like there was more he wanted to say.
Bea slowed. “It’s a great opportunity, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
She stopped. Tugged his hand until he stopped, too. “Is it wrong that I want to say yes,” she asked, “even if it wasn’t entirely because of me?”
He looked at her then, choosing his words like he always did: as clear and economical as possible. “I was born a King. That wasn’t because of me, either.”
There was no arguing with that logic.
Sometimes life handed you something—power, access, a way forward. You could apologize for it. Feel guilty about it. Or you could take it. And try to deserve it.
She reached for the donuts again, peeled the bag open, and started moving.
“You use that solemn delivery thing at work, too?” she asked, tossing him a sideways glance. “Because it’s weirdly persuasive.”
The stairs creaked under their boots, old wood worn soft by years of foot traffic. Bea led the way, her gloved hand trailing lightly along the wrought-iron railing as they climbed.
Halfway up, she paused. She hadn’t thought about this place in over a year—not since before St. Ives. But the memory came back all at once: late nights after U of T exams, shoes kicked off under velvet benches, split bottles of red, someone always forgetting their wallet. It had felt grown-up. Sophisticated.
Bea glanced back at him. “I used to come here with friends.”
Gage’s hand pressed lightly against the small of her back. “Lead the way.”
Bar Léonard was just as she remembered it—mismatched chairs, narrow windows fogged with condensation, vintage jazz murmuring beneath the hum of voices. Tables were scattered in odd shapes, mostly twos and fours pushed together, and the scent of baked brie and spiced wine hung dulcetly in the air.
Gage helped her out of her coat and scarf, his fingers brushing her shoulder as he hung them on the rack near the door.
She caught a glimpse behind them. One of Gage’s security details had peeled off at the stairwell, staying just outside near the entrance. The other had followed them through the door, and settled into a small two-top near the back. Unobtrusive. Watchful.
They were halfway to the bar when Bea stopped cold.
She knew the voices. The laughter. The rhythm of a story being told too loudly. And then she saw them: Maya, Jenna, a couple of guys from U of T, and Logan.
He was leaning back in his chair, drink in hand, legs casually crossed. His head turned just as Maya spotted Bea.
“Oh my gosh!” Maya stood up, beaming. “Bea? Wow, what are the chances?”
