No.
I let go abruptly, bracing both hands against the tile wall, water pounding against my shoulders like accusation.
I couldn't do this.
Couldn't taint her like that. Couldn't reduce what she'd offered—her honesty, her vulnerability, her trust freely given to a stranger—into a quick fantasy in my shower while I got myself off thinking about her.
It felt wrong. Disrespectful.
Like I was taking something that didn't belong to me.
It was obvious, even after one conversation, that what Ella said and what she actually was were two very different things.
She talked bold. Acted confident. Looked me in the eye and saidyoulike she did it every day. Like she was the kind of woman who made a habit of propositioning dangerous men in Parisian cafés.
But underneath?
She was softer than she wanted to admit. More innocent than she realized. The kind of woman who'd probably spent her whole life being careful. Making safe choices. Dating men who opened doors and remembered anniversaries and never once made her pulse race or her hands shake.
Men who were good for her.
And now grief had cracked her open, made her reckless, made her think she wanted something dangerous. Made her think she wanted the adrenaline rush of a man who looked like he might break things.
Made her think she wanted me.
But she didn't.
Not really.
She just wanted to feel something other than loss. Something sharp and immediate and alive enough to cut through the numbness.
And I?—
I wasn't that. Couldn't be that. Wouldn't be that.
Not for her.
I finished washing mechanically, scrubbing away grime and sweat and the faint scent of Paris streets clinging to my skin, then stepped out and dried off with more force than necessary.
No.
Decision made.
I couldn't call her.
Sure, she was in Paris to find out about her sister. That was legitimate. Important. Worthy. But the woman was in mourning. Raw. Vulnerable in ways she probably didn't even recognize yet because grief had a way of making you feel invincible and fragile at the same time.
And Kane Black, despite his many flaws, was not the kind of man who took advantage of a woman in mourning.
Fuck no.
That was a line even I wouldn't cross.
Some things were sacred. Some vulnerabilities couldn't be exploited, even when they were offered up willingly.
I pulled on clean clothes—jeans, T-shirt, nothing special—and stared at the pile of dirty laundry by the door like it held answers.
Maybe I could help her. There was clearly some mystery surrounding her sister's death. A man’s involvement. Questions she needed answered. I could provide that. Keep it professional. Keep it clean. Give her information without asking for anything in return.
