“Okay,” he admitted, bracing his hands on the stone railing. “You were right.”
Ella leaned beside him, grinning. “Iknow.”
The view stretched out before them—Geneva’s old town, a patchwork of terracotta rooftops and cobblestone streets, the lake a shimmering blue ribbon in the distance. The July sun gilded everything, turning the city into something out of a postcard. The spires of other churches pierced the skyline, the Jet d’Eau fountain a distant silver thread.
Nate exhaled. “Damn.”
Ella’s smile softened. “Told you.”
He side-eyed her. “Don’t get used to me admitting you’re right.”
“Oh, I won’t,” she said, still grinning, her eyes bright as she took in the view. For a second, he just watched her—the way the wind tugged at her hair, the way her fingers tapped restlessly against the stone, like she was itching to capture it all. He should’ve known she’d be the type to drag him up a million stairs just to prove a point.
Should’ve known he was in trouble.
The descent was slower, the stairs seeming to spiral endlessly downward. Nate’s legs protested, but the adrenaline of the view—and the way Ella had looked up there—kept him silent.
They were almost at the exit when a woman stepped into their path. Mid-fifties, a neon fanny bag slung around her waist, and one of those tiny tour-guide earpieces tucked into her ear.
“Hey, I know you, right?” she asked in a brisk Cockney accent.
Nate froze.Oh, hell.
“Uh, nope,” he said, stepping back.
“Huh? Not you, love.” The woman pointed past him at Ella.
Ella jammed the cap back on and slid her sunglasses down her nose. “Yeah—no. Sorry.”
The woman squinted. “You definitely look familiar. Were you on the tele or…?”
“Must be someone else,” Ella said, flashing her teeth.
The woman studied her for another beat, then shrugged. “Well. Never mind.” She hurried off to catch up with her tour group, already chattering about the Reformation.
They stepped outside into the sunlight, the cool cathedral air giving way to the warmth of the afternoon. Nate turned to Ella. “So, that was weird.”
“People confuse people. Happens all the time.”
“Uh-huh.” One eyebrow climbed higher. “Wait, you’re not secretly a huge influencer, are you? Should I be lining up for an autograph or something?”
Ella crossed her arms, gaze sliding past him toward the square. “Funny,” she said after a moment, “because that actor-lady in the café sure seemed to know whoyouwere.”
Nate frowned. “Miranda?”
“Right, Miranda,” Ella repeated. “You two had a thing?”
Nate nearly choked. “Whoa, what? We did some work is all.”
Ella shrugged, her fingers twisting the strap of her dress. “I just got this vibe.”
“We were never together,” he rushed. Not likethat, anyway. Miranda had been a scene partner. Which meant he’d slept with her. On camera. In front of a lighting rig, two producers, and a makeup artist. That distinction sounded a lot clearer in his head than it did out loud.
“Okay.” She exhaled. “Sorry. That was none of my business. I just—can we find water? And then head back?”
Nate’s stomach twisted, coiling tighter with every second he let the lie—or at least the omission—sit between them. Hisfingers flexed at his sides, itching to reach for her, to just tell her, but the words stuck in his throat as if they’d been glued there.
“Yeah. It’s hot, huh?” he said instead. “Think I saw a shop selling drinks nearby.”
