“So you have.”
I rest my head in my hands. “Tell me about your place in Paris, then.”
“You’ll see it. Soon enough.” He turns back toward the windows. “It’s an old apartment in Auteuil. It’s big, prewar, with enfilade rooms. Good location. It’s actually walking distance to Stade Roland-Garros.”
“Really?” I ask. The French Open is world famous. I’d love to see games there one day. It’s been a life-long dream.
“Yes. I’ll show it to you,” he says.
“Do you miss Paris? When you’re not there?”
“No.” He pushes the curtains back and opens the windowfully. The fabric flutters in the sudden burst of air, and he takes a deep breath.
“What place feels like home to you?”
He looks out the window. “None of them,” he says. “I don’t know, Wilde. What conversation topic is this?”
“It’s something I’ve been curious about.”
“Don’t be curious about me,” he says.
“Then stop being so intriguing.”
He laughs. It’s a low sound, and a little hoarse. He braces his hands on the wrought iron of the French balcony. “The irony of that, coming from you.”
It’s half a compliment, spoken like an insult. And it warms me despite the breeze he’s letting into the room.
“Maybe we’re both more complicated than we gave each other credit for. You know, back at the courthouse.”
He doesn’t answer for a long time. He just stands there, letting the cool wind wash over him, eyes locked on the dark lake beyond. I slip back beneath the covers and turn onto my side to watch him.
“I knew that the same day,” he finally says. His voice sounds reluctant. Like he doesn’t really want to be having this conversation and is thinking about swimming laps instead, but finds himself being drawn in.
I can relate to that feeling.
“Do you think you’ll be able to fall asleep again?” I ask.
“Maybe,” he says.
“You can read your book again. What is it about?”
“It’s a thriller.”
“Oh, maybe not then, if it’s scary.”
“It’s not. It’s a financial—never mind.” He turns to me, his back to the open window. “You should go back to sleep, Paige.”
I curl up on my side. His sheets are freshly changed, and they smell good. “You called me by my name. You don’t do that often.”
He watches me from across his room, faintly illuminated by the streaks of light visible outside. Moonlight, starlight, I don’t know.
“Sleep,” he repeats.
“While you watch?” I ask.
He scoffs. It’s barely a laugh, but it’s something, and for some reason it makes me smile against the cotton of the comforter. It’s better than the agony I heard earlier and the scar on his chest I can’t forget seeing.
He pulls the windows nearly closed, fixing them with the hitch. Then he walks back over to his side of the bed and grabs the book I asked him about. He turns on his bedside light.
