I looked like a woman who’d been touched without being taken.
My phone buzzed.
Connor:I’ll be there in fifteen.
My stomach flipped.
I typed backOkayand then deleted it, retyped it, deleted again.
Finally, I sent:See you soon.
Two seconds later, he replied:
Connor:Looking forward to it.
That was all. Four words.
And yet they made heat spread through my body like a slow match.
I grabbed my coat, then paused at the door.
For a moment, the old fear tried to rise—the message from last night, the shadow in the window, the idea that Paris had layers and I was walking into one of them without knowing the rules.
Then I remembered the truth I’d been circling all day.
I didn’t come here to be numb.
I opened the door and stepped into the stairwell, boots hitting the worn stone steps. Down one flight, then another, then another, the rhythm steadying me.
Outside, the street was washed in early evening light, the air cool and alive.
I reached the sidewalk and stopped.
A dark car was parked at the curb—clean, understated, wrong for my street in a way that made my pulse jump.
The back door opened.
Connor stepped out.
He looked … unfair.
Not flashy. Just controlled—dark coat, dark shirt, the kind of presence that made the space around him quiet itself. His gaze found me immediately, and something in his face shifted, subtle and honest.
Approval.
Desire, contained.
He walked toward me without rushing, like he wasn’t going to spook me.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” I replied, breath catching stupidly.
His eyes flicked over me—shoes to collarbone to mouth—then back to my eyes.
A beat.
“I’m excited,” I admitted, because I couldn’t seem to lie to him.
