Page 78 of The Daddy’s Girl

Taking my bag, she walks to the door and glances back as if she has more to say.

“Have a good trip,” I mumble, essentially stopping her from saying more. I’m not sure I can handle more.

“Thanks, sweetie. I’ll text you when we get there.”

With that, my mom disappears from the doorway, and I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My mind is an endless cadence of she’s wrong, she’s wrong, she’s wrong.

Beneath all that, I can’t help but admit…she’s not wrong. I know full well that I’m at risk of getting hurt. That getting attached to Matis is as easy as it is dangerous. The problem is that even if I am at risk, there’s not a thing I would do to change it.

Matis texts when he arrives, and I practically skip out the front door to find him standing on the concrete with a bouquet of lilies in his hand. He doesn’t own a car and never has. One doesn’t often require a car when living in Paris. Not where there are Métro stops and taxis everywhere. Owning a car is just more of a headache than a convenience.

“Are we walking again?” I ask as I jog to where he’s waiting by the street.

He chuckles. “No, Trouble. We are getting a taxi.”

As I come up to greet him, there’s a moment of intensity in our eye contact. Memories of what we did last night linger in the space between us. It’s a thick mist that makes everything else harder to see.

And every time I think about it, I’m hit with an electric current of arousal.

Unsure of how to act, I stick with what I know. Pressing up onto my toes, I give him a hug and touch my cheek to his on each side, a greeting he himself taught me when I was little.

The French handshake, my mother called it. Which looking back now…sounds much dirtier than it should.

Once we part, our eyes linger on each other for a moment. The last thing I want to be today is clingy. Yes, I want Matis, and obviously I want him to want me back, but I won’t make myself a thorn in his side to get it.

I want this to happen without pressure.

“How are you feeling?” he asks softly.

“Fine,” I reply nonchalantly as my shoulder lifts and drops to show just how cool and calm I’m being about this. “How about you?”

His lips press together, and he glances off at the street as if compiling his answer mentally before speaking. He looks so incredibly handsome in moments like this, with his stoic brow and crow’s-feet sprouting around his eyes. I’d be content to just stand here and stare at him.

Finally, he glances back down at me, forcing a lighthearted smirk on the side of his mouth. “I have a lot on my mind, Trouble. But I just want to enjoy a nice day. We can talk later.”

With my heart bursting in my chest, I wrap my arm around his, leaning into his side. This is where I’m safe.

And also where I’m in the greatest danger.

“Sounds perfect.”

A moment later, a taxi rolls up. He must have ordered it specifically because it’s a black SUV with dark tinted windows. As he opens the door for me, I climb in and he follows, staying close to my side.

The ride is quiet until we get closer to the nursing home. It’s in Montsouris, in a converted art nouveau mansion. Honestly, a stunning place tucked behind a vine-covered stone wall.

As we pull up, Matis pauses, putting his hand on mine. “Pouvez-vous nous laisser un moment, s’il vous plaît?” he asks the driver, requesting a moment to speak with me before we have to get out.

The driver nods and exits the car, standing outside to wait.

Matis turns toward me, every muscle in his face looking tense and uncomfortable. “I should prepare you,” he mumbles sadly.

I know his mother has dementia and that she’s been slowly deteriorating over the last few years. My heart splinters at the sight of his despondent eyes as they gaze unfocused at the hem of my skirt.

Squeezing his hand, I draw his eyes back up to mine. “You don’t have to prepare me. It’s okay.”

When he squeezes back, it gives me a shred of hope that he feels a little less alone. How long has he gone through this by himself? No siblings. No family. No partner.

I should have been here with him all along.