“About what you’re standing in.”
The phrasing didn’t escape me.
What I was standing in.
Danger.
Or something close to it.
I glanced at him as we walked.
“And this Connor,” I said lightly, though my heart thudded once harder than normal. “Does he approve of you dragging civilians into whatever this is?”
A flicker of amusement crossed his face.
“Probably not.”
“Does that bother you?”
“No.”
The simplicity of it sent a strange thrill through me.
He didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t hedge.
Didn’t soften.
Three streets over, the Maison de Verre sign came into view—small, understated, the kind of place you’d only find if someone told you about it.
Or if you lived here.
Kane slowed slightly as we approached.
“You ready?” he asked.
“For lunch?”
“For the rest of it.”
I looked at the door.
Then at him.
“Yes,” I said.
And I meant it.
26
KANE
We walked the three streets over to Maison de Verre at an easy, unhurried pace, her hand still warm in mine.
The place was small and intimate in that particularly Parisian way. The kind of restaurant you'd walk past a dozen times without really noticing unless you knew exactly what you were looking for and why it mattered.
But once you stepped inside, you immediately understood why Rose had kept coming back here, specifically.
