Chapter 11
ELLA
Cold air hit my face the second we stepped outside, but my skin still felt overheated, nerves buzzing in the aftermath of the clinic.
Rose’s name sat heavy in the folder clutched against my chest. Answers. Finally. Real ones. A name. A person who’d been there with her.
I should have been thinking about that.
Instead, I was hyper-aware of the man beside me.
Kane.
Mr. Black, according to the nurse. But he had already told me his first name, and in my head he was simply Kane now, because nothing about him felt formal. He was too solid, too real, too dangerous to belong behind polite titles.
We stopped on the sidewalk, the clinic door swinging closed behind us with a quiet click. Morning traffic had picked up. A woman pushed a stroller past. Someone argued loudly in French across the street. A delivery truck blocked half the road.
Normal life.
And here I was, pulse still tripping because of a stranger.
Because of the way he looked at me.
I turned to him. “Thank you.”
His gaze flicked to the folder in my hands, then back to my face. “You got what you needed?”
“I think so.” My throat tightened. “At least … enough to move forward.”
He nodded once, as if that settled something for him. Like he’d done what he came to do and was already preparing to disappear again.
Panic flared unexpectedly.
Nope.
Not happening.
“You said you were hungry,” I said quickly. “There’s a place down the street. I saw it earlier.”
He hesitated just long enough for my stomach to drop.
Then: “Lead the way.”
Relief bloomed, ridiculous and immediate.
We fell into step beside each other, our pace unconsciously matching. His stride was longer; mine quickened to keep up. Close enough that our arms brushed once, twice.
Each time, awareness sparked.
I stole a glance at him.
In daylight, he looked even more dangerous. The leather jacket hung open, revealing the T-shirt stretched across his chest. Faded jeans. Boots that looked like they’d seen real use.
Everything about him said function over appearance.
And yet he was devastatingly attractive.
The stitches along his cheekbone only added to it. Evidence. Proof he lived in a world that didn’t apologize.
Hank would have been horrified by visible injuries.
Hank had hated conflict. Hated raised voices. Hated confrontation of any kind. He avoided arguments with the same careful politeness he used for everything else.
At the time, I’d told myself that was maturity.
Now, walking beside Kane, I realized something uncomfortable.
Hank never made me feel protected.
Safe, yes.
But not protected.
There was a difference.
With Kane, I didn’t have to imagine how he’d react if something threatened me.
I already knew.
He’d handle it.
Quietly. Efficiently. Permanently.
And I noticed something else, too. At some point without comment or hesitation, he’d shifted positions so he walked on the outside of the sidewalk, between me and the street.
Between me and traffic. Like it was instinct.
Like protecting the woman beside him wasn’t a conscious decision, but muscle memory.
The sidewalk rule. My dad used to do that when Rose and I were kids, steering us away from passing cars without even looking. Hank never had. Not once.
And here was this man I’d known for less than an hour, already placing himself between me and anything that might hit too close.
There had been a time when I would have bristled at that.
At the implication that I needed protection.
That a man should automatically take the outside, open doors, step in front of danger.
I’d spent years insisting I didn’t need that—that independence meant never relying on anyone, never letting a man feel responsible for my safety.
But somewhere along the way, independence had blurred into isolation. Into doing everything alone even when I didn’t want to.
Walking beside Kane, it didn’t feel patronizing. It didn’t feel controlling. It felt … grounding. Like someone capable had chosen, without discussion, to take the harder position simply because I was with him.
And, if I was being honest, I liked it.
More than liked it.
I liked the quiet certainty of a man who knew how to handle trouble. Who didn’t need reassurance or permission to step forward when things went sideways. Someone strong enough that I didn’t have to be on guard every second.
Maybe I didn’t just want safe anymore.
Maybe I wanted a man who made me feel protected. Wanted. Claimed in the simplest, most primal way.
And Kane, walking beside me like it was the most natural thing in the world, felt dangerously close to exactly that.
I loved it. Completely.
The thought sent a ripple of heat down my spine.
I caught him glancing at me.
“Something funny?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Just thinking.”
“That usually gets people in trouble.”
“Oh, I’m sure it will.”
His mouth twitched, almost a smile.
Victory.
The café I’d spotted earlier came into view—small, corner spot, locals filtering in and out. We stepped inside, warmth wrapping around us along with the smell of coffee and fresh pastries.
We ordered at the counter—him in simple, accented French, efficient and direct. Me in careful phrases that made the barista switch to English out of mercy.
We took a small table near the window.
For a second, neither of us spoke.
The silence wasn’t awkward.
It felt … charged.
“So,” he said finally, leaning back slightly. “Manhattan.”
“Born and raised.”
“Still live there?”
“I did. Until …” I tapped the folder. “This.”
His gaze softened almost imperceptibly. “Your sister.”
“Yeah.”
He studied me, expression unreadable. “You okay?”
The question was simple. Direct.
And somehow that made it harder to answer.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Ask me again in a month.”
He nodded, accepting that without trying to fix it.
Hank would have tried to fix it. Offer solutions. Emotional logistics. Practical reassurances.
Kane just … let it be.
The barista set our drinks down. Croissants. Coffee. Simple.
He tore into the pastry with obvious hunger, eating like someone who didn’t always know where his next real meal came from.
I watched him before I could stop myself.
He noticed.
“You’re staring.”
“Sorry.”
“You don’t look sorry.”
I smiled into my coffee. “I’m not.”
His gaze sharpened, interest unmistakable now.
God, he was attractive.
Masculine in a way that felt primitive. Something my body recognized on instinct.
I thought about Hank again.
Dinner reservations. Weekend plans. Predictable sex scheduled around work stress and exhaustion.
Sex that was … fine.
Sex that never once made me lose control.
And sitting here across from Kane, I realized something uncomfortable and freeing all at once.
I wanted to lose control.
With him.
The thought hit so cleanly that heat pooled low in my stomach.
He shifted in his seat, eyes narrowing slightly.
“You’re thinking something dangerous.”
“Maybe.”
“About me?”
I held his gaze.
Before answering, hesitation flickered through me—old habits tugging at my instincts. I’d spent years being careful, measured, never letting attraction show too plainly. Wanting someone this quickly felt reckless. Embarrassing, even.
But the truth was already written all over my body.
In the way my pulse sped every time he looked at me.
In the heat pooling low whenever his shoulder brushed mine.
In the undeniable awareness of how handsome he was, especially up close—the rough edge of his jaw, the faint bruise darkening beneath his eye, the quiet power in the way he moved.
I wanted him. Badly. With a clarity that startled me.
And pretending otherwise suddenly felt pointless.
“Yes.”
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.”
“Magazine work. Features. Politics. Culture. Things people argue about online.”
He smirked faintly. “So, you start fights for a living.”
“I start conversations.”
“Same thing.”
I laughed.
God, this felt good. Easy. Effortless.
Dangerous.
“You,” I said lightly, “do you always show up places bleeding?”
“Only on special occasions.”
“Should I be worried?”
“About me?”
“About being seen with you.”
His gaze slid slowly over me, deliberate.
“If you stick around me long enough, yeah. Probably.”
Instead of scaring me, the answer thrilled something reckless inside me.
Rose had come here and chosen a life outside safe expectations.
Maybe this was part of it.
Choosing what felt alive.
I leaned back in my chair, studying him openly now.
He noticed.
“Still staring.”
“You’re very good-looking.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“You’re very direct.”
“I’ve wasted a lot of time being polite.”
“And now?”
“Now,” I said, meeting his eyes, “I guess I go after what I want.”
Silence.
The air between us tightened.
“And what do you want?” he asked quietly.
The answer felt simple.
“You.”
There it was.
No take-back. No polite deflection.
Just truth.
His expression didn’t change, but something shifted behind his eyes. Something darker. Hungrier.
He leaned forward slightly, voice low enough that only I could hear.
“You don’t say things like that unless you mean them.”
“I do.”
A long beat passed.
The café noise faded into background static—the clink of cups, the murmur of conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine—until all I could hear was my own pulse roaring in my ears.
What did I just do?
The question screamed through my head, loud and panicked. I’d said it out loud. I’d admitted it without qualifiers or humor or the protective layer of sarcasm I usually relied on. No softening. No retreat. Just yes.
Too much. Too fast.
I replayed the moment instantly, dissecting it the way I always did when vulnerability slipped past my guard. I should have laughed it off. I should have shrugged, made it sound casual, left myself an exit. I should have protected myself.
What if I’d misread him completely?
What if that intensity I’d felt was one-sided—my grief, my exhaustion, my body latching onto the first man who made me feel something sharp and alive? What if he’d only been polite, only returning curiosity instead of desire?
God. What if he thought I was unhinged?
My chest tightened as a dozen humiliating possibilities crashed in at once. He could pull back. He could smooth it over, make a joke, turn distant. He could remind me—gently or not—that we’d just met, that this was inappropriate, that I was projecting something onto him that wasn’t there.
I braced for it. For the polite rejection. The subtle retreat.
Finally, he leaned back again, breaking the moment.
And my stomach dropped.
“Good to know.”
Not rejection.
Not acceptance.
A promise deferred.
And somehow that was even better.
We finished eating slowly, conversation drifting into lighter territory—New York winters, Paris traffic, terrible airline food.
But under it all, tension coiled.
When we finally stood to leave, stepping back into cool morning air, the city felt brighter.
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.”
“Too late.”
I turned and walked away before I could second-guess myself.
Halfway down the block, curiosity won. I glanced back.
He was still standing there.
Watching me go.
And the look in his eyes promised this wasn’t over.
Not even close.