Chapter 11
CONNOR
The car ride to dinner was a special kind of torture.
Mila sat beside me in the back seat, close enough that I could smell her—something clean and soft, not perfume exactly, more like the scent of her skin mixed with Paris air. She'd crossed her legs, and the dress she wore had shifted just enough to show the curve of her knee.
I kept my hands to myself.
Barely.
She was the hottest thing I'd ever seen. Not in the obvious way—not the kind of beauty that announced itself and demanded attention. Understated. Elegant. The kind of gorgeous that snuck up on you and then hit you like a freight train.
I wanted to reach over. Touch her hand. Slide my fingers along her thigh. Pull her closer and feel her breath hitch against my mouth.
Instead, I stared out the window and focused on traffic patterns.
Professional, Ward. Real smooth.
The driver—arranged by Ellsworth, naturally—navigated the streets with the kind of efficiency that suggested he'd done this a thousand times. We crossed the Seine, turned into narrower streets, and finally pulled up in front of a building that looked like it belonged in a different century.
No sign. No obvious entrance. Just a discreet brass plaque that read: Le Jardin Caché.
The Hidden Garden.
I helped Mila out of the car, and the moment her hand touched mine, that jolt hit again. Electric. Undeniable.
She felt it, too. I could see it in the way her breath caught, the way her eyes widened slightly before she smiled.
"This is it?" she asked, looking up at the building.
"This is it."
We walked to the door, and before I could knock, it opened.
A man stood there—older, distinguished, wearing a suit that probably cost more than most people's cars. But his smile was warm, genuine. Not the cold professionalism you'd expect from a place like this.
"Monsieur Ward," he said in accented English. "Welcome to Le Jardin Caché. We've been expecting you."
Inside, the restaurant was a revelation.
The entrance opened into a small foyer with marble floors and walls draped in deep green fabric that absorbed sound.
Beyond that, the main dining room stretched out like a secret garden brought indoors—candlelight flickering in glass votives, ivy climbing the walls, flowers I couldn't name arranged in clusters that looked wild but weren't.
The ceiling was high, painted in soft blues and golds, giving the impression of twilight caught and held.
But what struck me most were the booths.
Private. Masked by sheer curtains that let light through but obscured the diners inside. You could hear the low hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, but you couldn't see anyone clearly.
Intimate. Luxurious. A place designed for people who wanted to disappear together.
I was a little bit in shock.
The ma?tre d'—the same man who'd greeted us—led us through the room to a booth near the back. He pulled the curtain aside, revealing a table set with white linen, crystal glasses, and a single candle burning low.
We slid into the booth, and the curtain fell back into place, cocooning us.
Mila looked around, her eyes wide, taking it all in. Then she turned to me, her expression half-amused, half-serious.
"Connor," she said quietly. "Can you afford this?"
I let out a cough of a laugh. "Truthfully? A new friend is paying. Because I'm pretty sure when the menus come, there won't be any prices on them."
Her mouth twitched. Then she laughed—real, unguarded laughter.
"We're like kids who snuck into a party," she said.
"Exactly."
The waiter appeared then, materializing from behind the curtain like he'd been waiting for the perfect moment. He was younger than the ma?tre d', but carried himself with the same blend of elegance and ease. Regal and common at the same time. The opposite of stuck-up.
"Good evening," he said, his English flawless. "I am Philippe. I'll be taking care of you tonight."
I expected menus.
He didn't offer any.
Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and began listing dishes like he was reciting poetry.
"Tonight, the chef has prepared a selection for you.
We'll begin with amuse-bouche—a quail egg with truffle foam and sea salt.
Followed by foie gras served with fig compote and toasted brioche.
For the main course, dover sole in brown butter with capers and herbs, paired with roasted root vegetables.
And finally, a tarte tatin with vanilla bean ice cream. "
I understood maybe half of that.
Mila looked equally lost, but she smiled politely.
Philippe continued. "For wine, I suggest two glasses of a 1992 Chateau Margaux. A beautiful year. Elegant. Complex."
"Sure," I said. "Why not?"
Philippe's eyebrow lifted just slightly—a flicker of curiosity—but he was too professional to let it show.
"Excellent choice, monsieur." He nodded once and disappeared.
Mila leaned forward, eyes sparkling. "Did you understand any of that?"
"Not a damn word."
She laughed again, and I realized I could get addicted to that sound.
The food came in waves.
Small plates at first—delicate, almost too pretty to eat. But when I tasted the quail egg, the flavor exploded on my tongue. Rich. Earthy. Perfectly balanced.
Mila made a soft sound of appreciation, and I had to look away before my imagination turned that sound into something else entirely.
We talked.
She asked about my childhood, and I sidestepped the sticky parts—St. Paul's, the things I'd done to survive. Instead, I told her about sports. Five in elementary and middle school. Three in high school. How I'd been recruited to play college football but enlisted in the Navy instead.
"Why the Navy?" she asked, her fork pausing mid-air.
I shrugged. "It felt right. Structure. Purpose. A way out. Plus, the recruiter said I’d get to see the world."
She didn't push, and I was grateful for that.
She told me about growing up in a small town where everyone knew everyone else's business. About her mother, who'd struggled with depression. About her father, who'd buried himself in work to cope.
"I think that's why I like photography," she said quietly. "It's a way of holding onto things. Proof that they existed."
I didn't say anything. Just listened.
The food kept coming. The foie gras was buttery and rich, the brioche crisp. The dover sole melted on my tongue. The wine—Christ, the wine—was like drinking liquid gold.
Philippe never hovered. He appeared when needed, refilled our glasses with perfect timing, and vanished again.
And through it all, I felt myself being pulled deeper and deeper into Mila's eyes.
Dark. Expressive. The kind of eyes that made you want to tell the truth even when lying would be easier.
Before I knew it, dessert was finished.
The tarte tatin was perfect—caramelized apples, buttery pastry, the ice cream melting into it like a slow surrender.
I set my fork down and leaned back, stuffed in the best possible way.
Mila smiled at me. "That was … incredible."
"Yeah," I agreed. "It was."
I signaled Philippe. "Can we get the bill?"
He smiled. "It's been taken care of, monsieur. Would you like me to call a taxi?"
I looked at Mila. She shook her head.
"We'll walk," I said.
Philippe's smile widened. "Ah. The Parisian way."
He escorted us to the exit, holding the door as we stepped out into the night.
The air was cool and clear, the city humming with life around us.
It was the most perfect night I could remember.
Except that wasn't quite right.
My mind swam back—unbidden, unwanted—to another night. Years ago. A roof at St. Paul's. Nine of us lying on our backs, tethered to ropes in case we slipped, staring up at the stars.
We'd talked about the future. About who we'd become. About the lives we'd build once we got out.
Brothers bound by hell.
I blinked, shaking the memory loose.
Mila was asking me something.
"Sorry," I said. "What?"
She smiled. "I asked if you always eat like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're starving."
I grinned. "Only when the food's good."
We walked slowly, side by side, close enough that our shoulders brushed.
Then I noticed them.
Five men. Walking toward us. At first, I thought nothing of it—just pedestrians, same as us.
But their path converged with ours, and my instincts kicked in.
Algerian, by the looks of them. Young. Cocky. The kind of energy that said they were looking for trouble.
They started speaking—rapid French I couldn't follow.
Mila replied, her tone polite. "Sorry, we're American."
At that, their eyes lit up.
The skinniest one—lazy eye, bad teeth—started rattling off American celebrities like he was reciting a grocery list. "Jennifer Lopez! Brad Pitt! Beyoncé!"
I stepped between them and Mila, angling my body to shield her.
"Excuse us," I said, and tried to walk past.
One of them grabbed my arm.
There was no decision. Just instinct.
I twisted, broke his grip, and drove my elbow into his forearm. The bone snapped with a wet crack, and he screamed, dropping to the ground.
Time slowed.
Pedestrians turned. Someone gasped.
The other four froze for half a second, processing what had just happened.
Then knives appeared.
Four blades.
The scene clicked into place. Four against two. But really, four against one.
I kept my voice calm. "Mila. Get back."
I didn't see her move. But I felt it. The shift in the air as she stepped away.
The first man lunged.
I caught his wrist mid-strike, twisted it back toward him, and drove my fist into his face. His nose crunched. Blood sprayed. He dropped, unconscious before he hit the ground.
That set off the other three.
They came at me together.
It wasn't a fair fight.
For them.
I swept the legs out from under one—his head slammed into the pavement like the opposite end of a teeter-totter. Out cold.
Two left.
They circled, more cautious now. One lunged. I sidestepped, felt the blade nick my forearm—a shallow cut, barely more than a scratch.
Then they were too close.
I grabbed both of them, one arm around each neck, locking them in a chokehold.
They still had their knives. It was a risk. But when my arms tightened, cutting off blood flow to their brains, they panicked. Clawed at my forearms. Dropped their weapons.
I squeezed.
One went limp. Then the other.
I eased them to the ground.
The guy with the broken arm was the only one still conscious, scooting away on his ass, eyes wide with terror.
I straightened, breathing steady, and glanced around.
Pedestrians stared. A few had their phones out—not filming, just frozen.
Then someone started clapping.
Others joined in.
Someone spat in the direction of the Algerians, muttering something in French that sounded like a curse.
I'd heard the immigrants were a problem in France. Gangs. Petty crime. But this—this felt personal for the locals.
Maybe I wouldn't give the French such a hard time in my head anymore.
Then I remembered Mila.
My gut clenched.
I turned, expecting to see fear. Shock. Maybe tears.
Instead, I saw curiosity.
Her eyes were wide, but not with terror. With something else. Something I couldn't quite name.
"Your arm," she said, pointing.
I glanced down. Blood seeped through the sleeve of my coat where the knife had caught me.
"I'm fine," I said. "But we should probably get out of here."
She nodded.
We both took one more look at the attackers, who were starting to stir, groaning and cradling injuries.
Then Mila said something that shocked me.
"Is this how you wine and dine all the girls?"
I stared at her, mouth open, completely blindsided.
Who was this woman who could watch violence unfold and crack a joke?
She squeezed my hand. "Come on. Let's go back to my place and get you cleaned up. My treat."
I didn't argue.
We walked away from the scene, her hand in mine, the city closing around us like it always did.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt something I hadn't let myself feel in years.
Hope.