Chapter Fourteen #2
She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t move away. “I’m starting to think that was a mistake.”
Nate grinned. “Too late.”
Ella tilted her head toward the narrow spiral staircase tucked into the corner of the cathedral. “Anyway, you should see the view from the bell tower.”
Nate groaned. “I take it there are stairs.”
“A lot of them,” she said, already standing and moving toward the entrance. “But totally worth it.”
He followed, shaking his head. “I think I preferred hungover Ella. At least she had the decency to complain about physical exertion.”
She whirled around and thumped him on the shoulder. “Hey, I’m charming when I’m hungover.”
“You’re a menace.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it, starting up the tight, winding staircase.
Nate followed, his gaze absolutely not dropping to the way her dress rode up as she climbed ahead of him.
Nope. Not happening. He was a gentleman.
A reformed man. A guy who definitely wasn’t imagining how those legs would feel wrapped around his—
“Nate.” Ella’s voice snapped him out of it. “Are you good back there?”
“Yep,” he said too quickly. “Just admiring the, uh, architecture.”
She snorted but didn’t call him out, just kept climbing. By the time they reached the top, Nate’s thighs were burning, but the second he stepped out onto the platform, he forgot all about it.
“Okay,” he admitted, bracing his hands on the stone railing. “You were right.”
Ella leaned beside him, grinning. “I know.”
The view stretched out before them—Geneva’s old town, a patchwork of terracotta rooftops and cobblestone streets, the lake a shimmering blue ribbon in the distance.
The July sun gilded everything, turning the city into something out of a postcard.
The spires of other churches pierced the skyline, the Jet d’Eau fountain a distant silver thread.
Nate exhaled. “Damn.”
Ella’s smile softened. “Told you.”
He side-eyed her. “Don’t get used to me admitting you’re right.”
“Oh, I won’t,” she said, still grinning, her eyes bright as she took in the view.
For a second, he just watched her—the way the wind tugged at her hair, the way her fingers tapped restlessly against the stone, like she was itching to capture it all.
He should’ve known she’d be the type to drag him up a million stairs just to prove a point.
Should’ve known he was in trouble.
The descent was slower, the stairs seeming to spiral endlessly downward. Nate’s legs protested, but the adrenaline of the view—and the way Ella had looked up there—kept him silent.
They were almost at the exit when a woman stepped into their path. Mid-fifties, a neon fanny bag slung around her waist, and one of those tiny tour-guide earpieces tucked into her ear.
“Hey, I know you, right?” she asked in a brisk Cockney accent.
Nate froze. Oh, hell.
“Uh, nope,” he said, stepping back.
“Huh? Not you, love.” The woman pointed past him at Ella.
Ella jammed the cap back on and slid her sunglasses down her nose. “Yeah—no. Sorry.”
The woman squinted. “You definitely look familiar. Were you on the tele or…?”
“Must be someone else,” Ella said, flashing her teeth.
The woman studied her for another beat, then shrugged. “Well. Never mind.” She hurried off to catch up with her tour group, already chattering about the Reformation.
They stepped outside into the sunlight, the cool cathedral air giving way to the warmth of the afternoon. Nate turned to Ella. “So, that was weird.”
“People confuse people. Happens all the time.”
“Uh-huh.” One eyebrow climbed higher. “Wait, you’re not secretly a huge influencer, are you? Should I be lining up for an autograph or something?”
Ella crossed her arms, gaze sliding past him toward the square. “Funny,” she said after a moment, “because that actor-lady in the café sure seemed to know who you were.”
Nate frowned. “Miranda?”
“Right, Miranda,” Ella repeated. “You two had a thing?”
Nate nearly choked. “Whoa, what? We did some work is all.”
Ella shrugged, her fingers twisting the strap of her dress. “I just got this vibe.”
“We were never together,” he rushed. Not like that, anyway. Miranda had been a scene partner. Which meant he’d slept with her. On camera. In front of a lighting rig, two producers, and a makeup artist. That distinction sounded a lot clearer in his head than it did out loud.
“Okay.” She exhaled. “Sorry. That was none of my business. I just—can we find water? And then head back?”
Nate’s stomach twisted, coiling tighter with every second he let the lie—or at least the omission—sit between them. His fingers flexed at his sides, itching to reach for her, to just tell her, but the words stuck in his throat as if they’d been glued there.
“Yeah. It’s hot, huh?” he said instead. “Think I saw a shop selling drinks nearby.”
“Sounds good.”
She started walking, pausing briefly to rub her temple, like the sun had reminded her head that it still wasn’t thrilled with her life choices. Nate sighed quietly. Relief crept in, but so did the uncomfortable awareness he’d just taken the conversational equivalent of hiding behind the couch.
***
The bus had barely pulled away from Ella’s stop before Nate’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He tugged it out, already knowing who it would be. Because, of course Jason would call. His brother could smell Nate’s Particular Flavor of Disaster the way sharks smelled blood.
“So,” Jason said in his ear, the sound of traffic and distant children’s laughter—and whatever suburban competence his brother had mastered—humming behind him, “have you told her yet?”
Nate adjusted his grip on the phone and stepped around a woman dragging a wheeled suitcase that looked like it had seen better decades. “Not exactly.”
There was a pause. A dangerous one.
“Not exactly,” Jason repeated. “Okay. Walk me through what ‘not exactly’ means.”
Nate slowed as the pedestrian light flashed green, and immediately started counting down like it, too, was judging him. “It means I tried to.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Kind of.”
“Of course you did.”
“And then,” Nate continued, “I chickened out.”
Jason exhaled slowly, the kind of sigh that carried the weight of a thousand I can’t believe I have to deal with you moments. “Nate.”
“I know.”
“No,” Jason said, “you don’t. Because if you knew, we wouldn’t be having this conversation while you wander around Geneva pretending your emotional constipation is a charming personality quirk.”
Nate snorted, dodging a cyclist who rang his bell with theatrical disdain. “It’s not constipation. It’s selective disclosure.”
“Wow. Get that from a self-help book, or are you workshopping excuses now?”
Nate crossed the street, his shoes scuffing against the pavement. “Look, I got close to saying it, but this girl I used to work with showed up out of nowhere, and my brain pulled the fire alarm.”
“That’s because you’re scared,” Jason said.
“Yes, thank you, Dr. Freud,” Nate muttered. “I’m aware.”
Jason ignored him. Because that was Jason’s superpower—plowing through denial like it was a flimsy roadblock. “You’re doing what you always do. You’re trying to control the outcome by not participating.”
“I am participating. I mentioned I was an actor.”
“But not the genre,” Jason fired back.
Nate stopped outside the bus stop, the glass facade reflecting the gray, unyielding concrete of the city. “She knows I care,” he said, his voice rough.
Jason laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Buddy. That is not the same thing.”
Nate pressed his palm against the cool glass of the bus shelter, his forehead following a second later. “It’s just a couple more days,” he said, more to himself than to Jason. “I can get out of this without hurting her. Without screwing it up.”
Jason went very quiet. “You know what screws it up?” he asked finally.
Nate groaned. “If you say ‘not telling her,’ I’m hanging up.”
“Not telling her,” Jason said promptly. “Because then she gets to fill in the blanks herself. And trust me, people are very creative when left alone with blanks. They don’t draw hearts and rainbows, Nate. They draw ‘you’re a lying piece of shit.’”
Nate groaned again, louder this time, and dragged his hand down his face. “Okay, bye, Jason.”
“Love you too,” Jason said cheerfully. “Call me when you’ve grown a spine.”