Chapter 5 #2
“Because I’m—” I gestured vaguely toward the street, the city, the invisible thread that tied me to René even when he wasn’t in my line of sight. “—observing.”
Dominic’s gaze flicked past me then, quick and precise. He followed the line of my attention without needing it explained. René Dubois was already halfway down the block, moving like a man who expected others to reorganize around him.
Recognition sparked instantly in Dominic’s eyes.
“Oh,” he said. “That guy.”
I sighed. “Of course you recognize him.”
Dominic shrugged. “Hard not to. He yells in three languages and looks like he’s perpetually disappointed in the state of humanity.” A beat. “He works for Paris Daily.”
“Yes.” Irritation seasoned with a hint of wonder unfolded within me.
“And he’s terrifying.”
Sadly, I couldn’t disagree with any of his assessments. “Also, yes.”
Canting his head, Dominic swept those hot chocolate eyes over me. “He’s currently teaching you how to… what, exactly?”
I folded my arms, bracing myself for a fight. “Observe.” Despite all of his playful wit and careless charm, Dominic could be possessive and it flared at the oddest moments.
That earned me a look. Brows drawn together, lips pursed, expression shifting from playful to thoughtful. He nodded once, like he’d reached a conclusion he approved of.
“Okay,” he said. “I won’t interrupt that.”
Relief flickered—brief and premature.
“I’ll just get us some coffee,” he continued, already rising. “And maybe something sweet. For morale.”
“Dominic,” I said sharply.
Too late.
Dammit.
Irritation flared all over again, first at René for vanishing without warning, then at Dominic for inserting himself into a carefully balanced rhythm, but mostly at myself for caring at all.
I shifted my weight, scanning the street, forcing my breathing back into something steady. Observe. Don’t spiral.
A few minutes later, Dominic reappeared like the bad penny he often pretended to be. Two coffees. Two pastries. Victory written all over his face.
He slid one of the cups in front of me, set the second down in front of his seat before he put the pastries on the table between us.
Then he paused.
Glanced down at his collar.
With deliberate, unbroken eye contact, he loosened his tie.
He pulled it free, balled the silk in his fist, and tucked it into his jacket pocket, abandoning formality to be here with me.
“There,” he said. “Much better.”
“You’re impossible,” I muttered.
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “You say that like it’s a flaw.”
I took a sip of coffee. Damn him—it was perfect. Exactly how I liked it.
“So,” he continued, settling comfortably beside me like he belonged there, “what are we looking at?”
“We,” I said pointedly, “are not looking at anything.”
“Ah,” he said. “Solo mission.”
“Yes.”
He nodded, then immediately leaned closer. “Okay, but hypothetically—if you were looking—what would you be noticing?”
I shot him a look. He grinned back, entirely unrepentant.
“This,” I said, gesturing between us, “is you not letting me work.”
“Au contraire,” he countered, “this is me being supportive.”
I laughed despite myself, short and frustrated. “You flew across an ocean.”
“Correct.”
“To be supportive.”
“Among other things.”
I closed my eyes for half a second, collecting myself.
He was warm beside me, familiar in a way that had nothing to do with Paris and everything to do with memory.
The first dinner. The way conversation had snapped into place so easily it felt inevitable.
The way inevitability had followed us all the way back to bed.
Dangerous territory.
I opened my eyes and looked at him fully. “If,” I said carefully, “I agree to go out with you tonight—”
His attention sharpened instantly.
“—will you go away,” I finished, “and let me work?”
He blinked. Once. Then he laughed, low and delighted.
“So that’s the deal,” he said.
“That’s the deal.”
He considered it for a beat, eyes dancing, then leaned back and lifted his coffee in a mock toast. “You drive a hard bargain, Rachel.”
“And?”
He smiled, slow and devastating. “Fine. Dinner tonight.”
He stood, already stepping back, giving me space at last. “I’ll pick you up after work.”
I frowned. “I didn’t say—”
“You did,” he said lightly. “You just didn’t realize it yet.”
Before I could argue, before I could reassert control, he was already walking away—this time actually leaving. I watched him disappear down the street until the crowd swallowed him whole, pulse humming, irritation and amusement tangled tight in my chest.
Then I looked down at the pastry in my hand. Flaky. Buttery. Perfect. The kind of thing you didn’t mean to finish but somehow always did. I took a bite before I could talk myself out of it, sugar and heat blooming on my tongue.
Too good.
Too easy.
That was the problem.
Dominic had always been like this—tempting in a way that didn’t feel dangerous until it was already too late. Familiar. Delicious. Absolutely terrible for my self-control.
I swallowed, brushed crumbs from my fingers. It was only dinner, I told myself, and this is only a pastry.
I took another bite and failed, completely, not to think about him.