His mouth curved just slightly. “Good.”
He held out his hand, offering.
My heart thumped once, hard.
I looked at his hand.
Then I put mine in it.
Warm. Steady. Real.
He squeezed—barely—like a promise he wasn’t saying out loud.
“Ready?” he asked.
I inhaled, tasting Paris on the air.
“Yes,” I said.
And together, we turned toward the car—toward dinner—toward whatever came next.
Right before the door closed, Connor glanced down at me and murmured, almost too quiet to hear, “You look … stunning.”
My cheeks warmed.
I didn’t look away.
“Don’t ruin me before we even get there,” I said, half joking, half not.
His eyes darkened. “I’m trying not to.”
Then he opened the door for me, and the night waited.
11
CONNOR
The car ride to dinner was a special kind of torture.
Mila sat beside me in the back seat, close enough that I could smell her—something clean and soft, not perfume exactly, more like the scent of her skin mixed with Paris air. She'd crossed her legs, and the dress she wore had shifted just enough to show the curve of her knee.
I kept my hands to myself.
Barely.
She was the hottest thing I'd ever seen. Not in the obvious way—not the kind of beauty that announced itself and demanded attention. Understated. Elegant. The kind of gorgeous that snuck up on you and then hit you like a freight train.
I wanted to reach over. Touch her hand. Slide my fingers along her thigh. Pull her closer and feel her breath hitch against my mouth.
Instead, I stared out the window and focused on traffic patterns.
Professional, Ward. Real smooth.
The driver—arranged by Ellsworth, naturally—navigated the streets with the kind of efficiency that suggested he'd done this a thousand times. We crossed the Seine, turned into narrower streets, and finally pulled up in front of a building that looked like it belonged in a different century.
No sign. No obvious entrance. Just a discreet brass plaque that read:Le Jardin Caché.
The Hidden Garden.
