“Psycho,” I start, glancing around the vast, empty space. “Why is the Louvre empty on a random day in March?”
“I had it closed to the public for the day.”
“How?” I ask, sceptical.
He smirks. “Money.”
I arch a brow, and his smirk deepens. “And a little persuasion,” he adds. “I tried to buy the damn thing, but apparently even with an outrageous amount of money and a few death threats, it’s not that simple. Something about it not being for sale because it belongs to the country.”
I roll my eyes, but I smile as I wander into yet another room.
We are in Paris.
My sister just got engaged. Arlo chose this place to propose, because it meant something to them, and my job was to get her here without her suspecting a thing.
What I didn’t expect was for the psycho to appear out of nowhere and insist that we spend a few days in Paris as well.
Classes are still running at the academy, but we both know he is wasting his time, and as for me, no one really cares as long as I pass my exams.
The past few weeks, from New Year’s until now, have been nothing short of complicated and amazing which I hate and love at the same damn time.
We act like a damn couple, and it no longer feels like just sex.
Not that it ever really did, but at least before I fought it harder. Now I don’t even bother pretending.
What matters more is that the guilt, the self-hatred, and the nightmares don’t come the way they used to, because he iseverywhere. In my classes, in my dorm, in my bed, in my space, and somehow the noise in my head quiets because of it.
I have been spending more time with my sister, which I am grateful for now, especially since she and Arlo plan not to return to the academy and only come back in May to sit their exams. So I will not see her as much.
Arlo is technically doing some sort of master’s degree, though I doubt he needs it. I know well that he was never really at the academy for studying, he was there for my sister.
A hand suddenly grips the back of my neck, and I am pulled into his chest without warning. He bends down close to my ear.
“Stop,” he whispers.
It should frighten me how well he knows me.
After a few more hours wandering through the galleries, surrounded by amazing art, I finally huff.
“I could eat an entire pizza,” I say. “Oh, and those pizza dough balls with Nutella on the side for dipping, plus a lemonade with the food and an espresso with dessert. Maybe even a gelato.”
His eyes narrow, darkening as he looks at me. “You’re fucking hungry.”
He takes my hand and starts walking without waiting for a response.
By the time we finish eating, my stomach is so full it actually hurts. I press a hand to it.
“I think I might burst,” I mutter. “I’m not even joking.”
Without a word, he pulls out his phone.
“What are you doing?” I ask, already suspicious.
He lifts it to his ear. “Can a stomach rupture from overeating?” he asks immediately, without so much as a greeting.
I stare at him in disbelief as he listens for a few seconds, nodding once.
“Oh,” he says. “I see.”
