Chapter Fourteen
The cable car doors hissed open, disgorging them onto the concrete loading platform and straight into a tourist gauntlet: a thicket of camera straps, sun hats, and trekking poles brandished like swords. Nate followed Ella out, pulse spiking for reasons that had nothing to do with the altitude.
She marched ahead, all long legs and that damn dress—flared and bouncing with every step, the wind playing dirty with the hem. A sudden gust lifted it, revealing the curve where thigh met hip, before the fabric settled again.
His brain short-circuited.
Which was why he completely missed the kid charging directly into his path. He appeared out of nowhere, an ice cream cone wobbling precariously in one sticky fist. Nate clipped the little human just enough to send him staggering sideways.
“Whoa—hey, sorry, buddy.”
The boy squinted up at him, processing, then shrugged in the resilient way only children could manage before darting away, the cone miraculously still intact.
Nate watched him go, dragging a hand down his face. “Focus,” he muttered under his breath.
He looked up again. Ella had stopped a few yards ahead at a giant wall map bolted to the side of the station, completely oblivious to the mental hurricane trailing behind her—and how close he’d come to blurting everything out at the museum. If he had…
Yeah. He wasn’t going there.
Not today. Not with Ella being… well, Ella.
“Okay, sore head be damned—I’m glad we did this,” she said over her shoulder as they strolled out of the cable car station and into the sudden sprawl of sky. Tourists fanned out across the summit, cameras clicking, voices overlapping in a dozen different languages, the lake flashing blue far below.
They drifted farther from the station, the ground softening into grass, the noise thinning to a manageable hum. Ella dropped down first, folding herself cross-legged with an air of decision. “This looks good,” she said, patting the space beside her.
Nate sat and reached into his satchel, grateful for something practical to do with his hands. He pulled out the crumpled brown paper bags, the tops folded down and translucent with butter. Ella opened one and let out a reverent hum that did something unsettling to his nervous system.
“Croissant and pain au chocolat,” she said, peering inside. “I take back everything judgmental I’ve ever thought about you.”
His chest loosened. Not much. A millimeter, maybe—but it mattered. The emotional equivalent of loosening a belt notch after a big meal.
“Judgmental?” he asked, mustering a laugh. He knew her approval shouldn’t matter this much. He knew it absolutely shouldn’t feel like a small victory every time she smiled at him like that. And yet—here he was.
Ella just bobbed a shoulder.
Nate tore a croissant in half and lifted it to his mouth. Halfway there, he froze. Lowered it again. “So, something’s been bugging me since this morning.”
Ella glanced over, crumbs clinging to her fingers like glitter. “Uh-oh.”
He jabbed the croissant in the air. “Mount Salève. I feel like I know it. Like it’s lodged somewhere in my brain. But every time I try to pin it down… blank.”
Her face lit up. “Oh. Frankenstein. Grrr.”
He blinked. “Huh?”
“Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. She wrote parts of it while holidaying in Geneva. The Salève’s where the monster broods during his angsty teen phase.”
His brow furrowed. “Yeah,” he said slowly, “that’s not it.”
She stared at him. Then scoffed. “You’re such a dick.”
Before he could respond, she tore off a small piece of bread and flung it at his shoulder.
Nate barked a laugh. “Oh, that’s the best you’ve got?”
Her eyes narrowed. She dug back into the bag and ripped off a larger chunk, arm already cocked.
Instinct took over. He lunged forward and caught her wrist mid-throw. The movement stilled them both. Their faces hovered inches apart, close enough that he could see the tiny freckle near her mouth, close enough that his brain helpfully shut down all higher reasoning.
A prickle ran across the back of his neck, spreading down his arms. His grip loosened without him meaning it to, every nerve suddenly aware of how close she was.
Then her eyes flicked over his shoulder and widened.
“What—” he started, already turning his head.
Just a guy. Wandering toward them, hauling an admittedly enormous camera. So what? Another tourist with an expensive hobby documenting a vista photographed to death. Before he could form a question, her free hand clamped on his chin and tugged his face toward her.
And kissed him.
Hard. All mouth and intent, like she’d decided something important, and he was it. His first thought was Oh, followed quickly by OH. Whatever protest his brain had been preparing never made it past his lips.
It took him a second to notice the shift. The urgency eased, melting into something slower, more deliberate. Her hand slid into his hair. His grip loosened, fingers uncurling from her wrist without conscious permission, as if his body had decided for him: more of this.
They broke apart at the same time, panting. For a beat, they stared at each other. The world rushed back in—the wind, distant voices—but Nate barely registered any of it. All he could see was her.
Allegra’s face turned pink. “Oh my God,” she blurted, pulling back entirely. “That was… I shouldn’t have—”
“No, don’t apologize,” Nate cut in. “Really, it’s—”
“—uncool,” Allegra barreled on, her hands flailing. “And unfair, after you know. Let’s pretend it didn’t happen. Okay?”
“Yeah, okay,” Nate said, even though every cell in his being was hollering, kiss her again, you idiot. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to look casual, like his pulse wasn’t still roaring in his ears. “Already forgotten.”
She gave a rapid nod, glancing past him for a second before tugging at her ponytail. “Great. Good.”
Nate nodded in return, like agreement might make this less of a lie.
Ella bent to gather her paper bag. “So, uh, where were we? Mary Shelley?”
He went with it. “Right. Frankenstein. Man makes terrible choices. Everyone pays for it.”
“Wow,” she said. “You have read it.”
So he stared at the lake. At the sky. At a cloud that looked vaguely like a duck. Literally anything except her lips, and told himself—firmly, repeatedly—that wanting to kiss her again didn’t mean he should.
Half an hour later they crumpled the empty pastry bags and wandered back toward the cable car station.
The ride down the mountain passed in a strange, suspended quiet.
The cable car hummed along its line while the valley slowly rose to meet them, fields and rooftops sharpening into focus below. Now and then their arms bumped.
Every time it happened, his whole body seemed to notice.
***
The city was different.
Nate knew that was absurd. Geneva had not rearranged its urban planning because he and Ella Fischer had lost their collective minds on a mountainside.
The cobbled streets remained cobbled. The pale stone buildings still leaned together like gossiping neighbors.
Somewhere nearby, coffee cups clinked and someone laughed.
But walking beside her now carried an electric awareness he couldn’t shake. Because he knew exactly what her tongue tasted like. And despite an hour of determined mental discipline, his brain kept replaying the moment like a highlight reel.
Apparently, the human mind interpreted don’t think about that as think about it constantly.
He shook his head and forced his attention to his surroundings.
After making it back down from the Salève, Ella had suggested a tour of the Old Town.
Now they wandered side by side through narrow, crooked streets paved with stones that had almost certainly witnessed centuries of drama—and probably a fair number of bad ideas.
They rounded a corner, and Nate’s gaze followed the incline to a hulking stone building.
“So, this is the big church everyone talks about?” he asked.
“Uh-huh. Keep up,” Ella said with a grin.
They reached the broad square in front of the cathedral a few minutes later. It loomed over them, all stark stone and severe lines, and Nate frowned. “That’s it?”
Ella stopped short, turning to face him with her brows raised. “That’s Saint Pierre’s Cathedral. It’s, like, eight hundred years old.”
“Yeah, and it looks like someone’s sad, gray uncle.” He squinted up at the towering facade. “I expected… I don’t know. More pizzazz.”
Ella burst out laughing. “You expected pizzazz from a Protestant cathedral?”
“Hey, I’ve seen churches. They’ve got gold, they’ve got frescoes, they’ve got drama. This is more disappointed fortress.”
She shook her head, still laughing, and pushed open the heavy wooden door. The interior was just as understated—high ceilings, plain walls, rows of simple pews. No reverent saints, no gilded altars, just a lot of austere stone and the faint scent of old wood and candle wax.
Nate crossed his arms. “Okay, I take it back. This isn’t just unimpressive. It’s depressing.”
Ella tugged off her cap and slid her sunglasses onto the top of her head. She turned to him, hands on her hips. “Uh, that’s kind of the point.”
“Excuse me?”
“Calvin’s home base?” she said, like he was the one who’d missed the memo. “John Calvin? Ring any bells? Reformation? No frills, no idols, no sparkly distractions?”
He blinked. “Oh. Right. That guy.”
“That guy,” she repeated, deadpan, “slightly important historical figure.”
Nate waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah, smartass, I know who Calvin is. I just thought—” He gestured at the empty space. “I don’t know. More razzle-dazzle.”
Ella snorted. “You wanted razzle-dazzle from the guy who banned dancing?”
“Frankly, yes.” Nate dropped onto a pew, stretching his legs out in front of him. “I’ve been to Vegas. I know what a church can do with a little ambition.”
Ella sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. “Ugh. You’re so… American.”
“Yet here you are, choosing to spend time with me.”