One eye opened.
“About?”
“Everything.”
His gaze studied my face, searching for something.
“You want the honest answer?”
“Yes.”
“We figure it out one piece at a time.”
Not dramatic.
Not comforting.
Just practical.
And oddly, that helped.
I traced one of his ribs with my finger.
“You’re not what I expected to find in Paris,” I admitted.
A corner of his mouth lifted. “What were you expecting?”
“A few awkward meetings. Paperwork. Closure.” I swallowed. “Not … this.”
His arm tightened slightly around me.
“Regretting it, Manhattan?”
I shook my head against his chest.
“Nope.”
And the truth of it surprised me with its certainty.
Not even a little.
Even with everything else spinning wildly out of control, the connection between us felt … right.
Ill-timed.
Dangerous.
Complicated.
But right.
Silence settled again, companionable this time.
But my mind refused to stay quiet for long.
Because another question slid in, one that hadn’t fully formed while we’d been at Étienne’s apartment, while Sabine’s existence rearranged everything I thought I knew about my sister.
Why did Rose keep this place?
