Silence stretched.
A beat.
Two.
His jaw flexed.
“Careful,” he said quietly. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“That’s part of the appeal.”
He let out a low breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
“You always this direct?”
“No.”
“Why now?”
I shrugged, though the truth felt bigger than the gesture. “Life’s short.”
His eyes flickered with something darker. Recognition, maybe.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “It is.”
We ate in companionable quiet for a moment.
Outside, people rushed past, late for work, lost in their own mornings.
Inside, time felt suspended.
“So,” I said, setting down my cup. “What brings you to Paris, Kane Black?”
“Work.”
“What kind?”
“The kind you don’t ask questions about.”
I leaned forward slightly. “That makes me want to ask more questions.”
“That’s because you’re smart.”
“And curious.”
“And curious.”
I studied him, enjoying the way his attention stayed locked on me. Most men’s eyes wandered eventually.
His didn’t.
“What about you?” he asked. “Besides paperwork and grief.”
“I’m a writer.”
That surprised him. I could see it.
“Really.”
