That knocked me back a step. Literally.
"How the hell?—"
"Not here," he said.
I scanned the room again, looking for Mila. Found her near the bar, talking to some guys with too-quaffed hair and European smugness. Half of me wanted to tell Micah to fuck off, that I'd stay with her instead.
But I couldn't ignore what he'd said.
Micah Dane wasn't a man who tracked you down to feed you bullshit. He was serious. Solid. The kind of operator you wanted at your six when everything went to hell.
"Is there a team outside?" I asked, voice low. "Getting ready to stuff me in a van?"
Micah actually laughed. "No. But if you want to avoid that scenario, maybe you should listen to what I have to say."
I looked at Mila one more time. She glanced back, just for a second, and something passed between us. A promise, maybe. Or a question.
Then I nodded.
"Lead the way," I said.
Wondering what the hell I'd just gotten myself into.
4
MILA
After the art showing, Paris felt … nearer.
Not friendlier. Not softer. Just closer, like the city had stepped an inch into my personal space and was waiting to see what I did about it.
I tried to go to sleep that night like nothing had happened.
I brushed my teeth, washed my face, folded my dress over the back of my chair with almost aggressive care—like neatness could press the moment flat, make it harmless. I climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling until the lights outside my window shifted from amber to gray.
Connor Ward.
The full name kept replaying, not because it was romantic—if anything, it was blunt—but because of what it had done to him. The way his body had gone still the second it was spoken. The way his gaze had sharpened like a knife being lifted.
I’d grown up around men who thought they were intimidating. Men who used volume and swagger like armor. Connor’s intimidation lived somewhere else entirely. In restraint. In the way his silence felt intentional.
And in the fact that he’d known my name.
I told myself he’d heard it somewhere benign. That someone had said it while I was ordering coffee or talking about my project. That he’d simply … listened.
But my mind was annoyingly thorough when it was avoiding something.
He’d said my name like he’d already decided what it meant.
I rolled onto my side and pressed my face into the pillow, trying to smother the heat that kept creeping up my throat.
I wasn’t a teenager. I didn’t get undone by a man’s attention in a room full of art.
Except, apparently, I did.
In the morning, I woke to the sound of someone arguing with their lover on the street below—French words spilling out in fast, emotional bursts. I couldn’t translate most of it, but the meaning was unmistakable. Anger. Desire. The familiar intimacy of people who knew exactly how to hurt each other and did it, anyway.
Paris, I decided, did not believe in subtlety where emotions were concerned.
