“All right,” she said, looking to cross the street in the direction of the hill. “Let’s go.”
He yanked her back, chuckling at her as he led her farther down the way. “Lesson one about navigating any European city. The shortest path between two points is never a straight line.”
“No?”
“Nope. Gotta go this way.”
She was glad he knew where he was going, because by the time they reached the steep stairs heading up, she was out of breath and completely turned around. He slung an arm around her shoulders, tugging her close as they avoided a couple more aggressive street peddlers, deflecting them with his body language and a short burst of annoyed-sounding French. It made a warmth grow in her chest, to have him looking out for her like this.
Working to keep up with him as they ascended, she asked, “How did you get to be such a good tour guide, anyway?”
“Dunno. Just had a lot of time to learn my way around the city. Figured out what my favorite places were and decided to share them.” His voice trailed off before he could mention how many people he had shared them with.
And it was funny—she didn’t have any illusions that she was the first one he’d given this tour to. He’d taken her to places that had seemed tailored to her tastes, but he was clearly pretty practiced at this whole thing. Hell, he’d basically admitted that his shtick had served him well with women in the past.
Still. Her gaze drifted to the center of his chest, where the drape of his shirt concealed the ring he wore around his neck. Maybe the hitch to his voice as he’d told her about his father had been a part of the act, but she didn’t think so. This time they were spending together was only temporary, and she was far from unique. But she had some claim on him. Something that set her at least a little bit apart from the rest.
That thought made her bold.
“You know.” Glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, she tested the waters. “You never did tell me what brought you here.”
He hummed, frowning, and subconsciously or not, picked up the pace at which he climbed. She quickened her own gait, hooking her hand into his belt for something to hold on to.
“What brings anyone to Paris?” he asked after a moment, shrugging and dropping his arm. “Great city, good art, better food. I already knew the language, so I figured why not?”
“Those are all good arguments for Paris,” she agreed. She could have let it go there, but she couldn’t help pushing. “But you’re not from here.”
“Nope.”
God, this was like pulling teeth. Why the freedom with his story last night and this brush-off today? “So where are you from?”
“New York, originally. The city.”
“Is that where your family still lives?”
He shot her a look she couldn’t quite decipher. “You know full well my dad’s not living there anymore.”
Yeah, she did know that. Not exactly the most sensitive way she could have phrased it. “Right.” She cleared her throat. Tentatively, she prompted, “And your mom . . .?”
He let out a short bark of a laugh that sounded pained. “Who knows? Could be in New York. Could be in Argentina or Shanghai, for all I know.”
Casting a glance over his shoulder, he sped his pace even more as they passed a clump of slow-moving tourists, and dammit all. This hill was steep, and his legs were a hell of a lot longer than hers. The bastard didn’t even seem out of breath.
“Jesus,” she finally said, giving up. She let her hand slip from his waist as they hit another set of stairs, not even caring that the family they’d just passed would now have to get around them. Her thighs burned, and she grabbed her chest, winded. “What the hell are you running from?”
All at once, he froze. And she almost missed it. The way his eyes widened and his mask of casual flirtatiousness evaporated, leaving this wretched, surprised expression. Betrayal and hurt, and . . . she didn’t even know what. As fast as it had appeared, it retreated, and he blinked a couple of times, brows furrowing. “Excuse me?” he asked.
What the hell? She just wanted to know why he was walking so damn fast, and . . .
And then it struck her all at once. She’d been needling him and needling him, and without even meaning to, she’d tripped right over the truth.
He was here, in Paris, thousands of miles from home, avoiding her questions about his life because he was running away. From what, she couldn’t guess, but from something. Something big.
She swallowed hard, and her voice cracked. “Literally. I meant, literally.”
“Oh.”
The grin she’d been waiting for made a valiant attempt at surfacing on his face but ultimately couldn’t quite seem to manage it. Looking away from him, she put her hands on her knees, hunching over to take a few good deep breaths. Silence hung over them, low and sticky like the air felt after their uphill jog. When she dared glance up at him again, he was leaning against a railing, arms crossed in front of him.
And clearly determined to ignore everything he’d unwittingly revealed in the last few minutes.
“You good?” he asked. And he didn’t sound distant, precisely. Just guarded in a way he hadn’t been. It felt more like the show he’d been putting on that first day, picking her up and buying her coffee and trying to be so debonair.
Trying and succeeding.
She nodded, standing up straight again. “Yeah. I’m fine. So long as you don’t do your Road Runner thing and take off on me again.”
“I’ll try to restrain myself.”
Ignoring the group of people currently passing them, he held out his arm to her, and she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. He felt warm and solid and dependable.
It was deceiving. How many times had her mother told her—you could never really trust a man. Especially not one that could do better than you. She swallowed hard. It didn’t matter how open Rylan seemed sometimes. This was a man who wasn’t telling her everything.
Arm in arm, and at a much more reasonable pace this time, they set off up the hill again. They talked idly about the things they passed and how far it still looked to the top, but it was superficial, allowing a wide berth around whatever they’d nearly stumbled into a few moments before.
She kind of hated it.
Finally, after what felt like forever, the stairs gave way, and he steered her to the right.
And suddenly her feet didn’t hurt and her lungs didn’t burn. “Wow,” she murmured absently.
“Told you.”
He hadn’t been lying. The basilica itself stood off to the side, but it barely fazed her, because they were on the top of the world, the sky was blue, and all of Paris lay beneath their feet.
“Come on.”
Taking her hand, he wandered through the crowd, somehow managing to find a clear place against the railing to look out over it all. Urging her to stand flush against the fence, he stepped in behind her, hooking his chin over her shoulder, his chest warm against her spine.
“Do you have a camera?” she asked. If she’d known this was going to be so spectacular, she would have insisted on going to her hostel first so she could grab hers.
“Don’t worry about it.” He shook his head and held her closer. “We’ll worry about it later. For now, just enjoy it.”
Her breath caught in her throat. She wanted some images to remember this moment by, but also to use as references for paintings she might do someday. But what was the point of remembering a moment she was too busy recording to be a part of?
She needed to soak this in.
Fact was, she had a lot of things to worry about. Between the progress she’d been hoping to make with her art and the decisions facing her as soon as she got home and all these twisty-turny feelings Rylan was awakening in her . . . her head and heart were more than full with troubles.