"Really?" she said, smiling. "You seemed pretty comfortable."
I shrugged. "I can be comfortable and still hate it."
She bit her lip, still grinning. "I mean, sure. It's fine to look. But I'm not really the showy type."
"I picked up on that," I said.
Then, because my brain was running on fumes and my mouth apparently didn't need permission anymore, I added, "Maybe you should be."
Her eyes went wide.
Shit.
"I didn't mean—" I started quickly, heat crawling up my neck. "I don't mean you should have sex in public. I just meant you're gorgeous and you should show it off more."
The words hung there, raw and honest and completely unfiltered.
Her cheeks flushed pink. She looked down, smiling at the sidewalk like it had just told her a secret.
"Oh," she said softly.
We kept walking.
My pulse was still hammering. I was running on fumes—another sleepless night, adrenaline from dealing with Julien, and now the residual heat from that room. It wasn't my scene. Orgies had never been my thing. But I was still a man, and seeing sex—even secondhand—had a way of heightening everything.
I wanted to reach out. Take her hand. Feel her skin against mine without the weight of intention behind it.
I didn't.
Instead, I cleared my throat. "You want to get coffee?"
She glanced at me, relief flickering across her face. "Yes. Please."
We found a café with outdoor seating, tucked into a corner where the sun hit the tables just right. Mila slid into a chair and picked up the menu, her French coming out hesitant but determined when the waiter appeared.
He responded in rapid-fire French that I had no hope of following.
She ordered something—coffee, I assumed—and then looked at me expectantly.
I shrugged. "I'm not fluent."
"Neither am I," she admitted.
The waiter stared at me like I was a lady-whipped lad from the sticks who'd stumbled into the city and had no business being there.
I ignored the judgment and pointed at the menu. "Triple espresso. And bring an assortment of your favorite pastries."
At that, the waiter's expression shifted. His eyes lit up with the kind of enthusiasm only a Parisian could muster for food.
He nodded sharply and scurried back inside.
Mila leaned back in her chair, smiling. "You just made his day."
"Good," I said. "I need him on my side."
She laughed, then tilted her head, studying me. "We keep running into each other."
I shrugged, trying for casual. But I was too tired to lie well, and honesty had a way of slipping out when my defenses were down.
