More possible.
We paused on the sidewalk again, neither of us quite ready to say goodbye.
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “You got plans now?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to follow up on this.” I tapped the folder. “Track down the man who was with my sister.”
His expression sharpened slightly. Protective instinct, maybe.
“You want company?”
The offer surprised me.
Tempted me.
But this part—I needed to do alone.
“I think I need to handle this one myself.”
He nodded. No pressure.
“Fair.”
A beat passed.
“Well,” I said. “I guess this is where we part ways.”
“Guess so.”
Neither of us moved.
I looked at him, really looked.
And knew.
I wasn’t done with him.
Not even close.
“You staying in Paris long?” I asked casually.
“Don’t know yet.”
I pulled a pen from my bag, grabbed a receipt from the café, and scribbled my number down.
Then pressed it into his hand.
“In case you get hungry again.”
His gaze flicked from the paper to my face.
A slow, knowing smile touched his mouth.
“Careful, Manhattan.”
