Daryl paced outside the back door of the police station, puffing on a cigarette. His presence only reminded me that all of this was my fault. If I’d told him where I was going, none of this would’ve happened.

When he spotted me on the steps, he flicked his butt onto the pavement and closed the gap between us in five quick strides.

“That’s littering,” I said, my hand braced on my forehead like a visor to block the sun. “Aren’t you sworn to uphold the law or something?”

Placing his palm on the small of my back, he guided me down the steps. “First of all, I’m not a cop anymore. Second, even if I was, Paris is a little out of my jurisdiction. And third …” Lip curled over his teeth, he slanted his gaze my way. “What the fuck were you doing out of your room?”

For a moment, he looked more like my dad than a guy on my payroll, and something inside of me warmed. But then I thought of Logan, locked in a cell in the hundred-year-old precinct, and my blood turned to ice.

“It was a spur of the moment thing.”

Stepping around him, I headed for the SUV taking up two spaces at the curb. Daryl cut me off, reaching for the door. “We’re not finished with this discussion.”

Nodding, I let him help me onto the high seat, Logan’s phone and wallet clutched in my hand.

Surprisingly, three or four of the paparazzi the cops hauled in to give statements corroborated my story. And once it was clear that Logan wasn’t the aggressor, the sergeant had allowed me to see him for a few minutes. Despite the split lip and blood staining his T-shirt, Logan had appeared calm.

“Call Trevor. He’ll know what to do. And don’t worry.”

I’d nodded, ready to profess my love right there in the dingy interrogation room. But the photographers had been right outside, perched on benches that faced our open door. So I’d settled for holding Logan’s hand under the table until the guard had come to haul him away.

“See you soon, princess.”

But would he?

As I gazed out the window at the Eiffel Tower, more gold than bronze in the midday sun, I had my doubts. The City of Lights had never been my friend. And she took more than she gave.

Daryl barked something into his Bluetooth and slammed his palm on the steering wheel. “Fuck.”

Though I couldn’t take more bad news, something told me I didn’t have a choice.

“What is it?”

“Nashville is going to look like a walk in the park compared to this.” My lips curved into a smile. Nashville was everything. Nashville brought me back to life.

“Glad you’re amused,” he muttered. “Because there are fifty photographers camped out on the sidewalk in front of the hotel.”

My stomach sank even as my heart rate soared. “Fifty? Why?”

But I already knew. By now, the news of Logan’s arrest had hit the wire. And there were pictures. And video. My phone had died at the station, and Logan’s was suspiciously quiet as well. So I tapped the screen, confirming the device was out of juice.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Just get me into my room, Daryl. I have calls to make.”

“What did I tell you about maintaining a low profile?” Trevor’s exasperated voice bled through the speaker, loud enough to vibrate the glass covering the desk where the phone sat. “This is exactly the opposite of what I had in mind.”

Burying my head in my hands, I ran my fingernails lightly over my scalp. In the past six hours, I’d consumed three cups of coffee and two energy drinks. Every nerve ending in my body was caffeinated—including my hair follicles.

Straightening, I rolled my head from side to side as I poured a glass of water. “Save the lecture and just tell me what to do.”

Trevor sighed. “Come home.”

I choked, spewing Perrier on the desk. “What?” Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I glared at the phone. “Be serious.”

“I am.”

Popping out of my seat, I shook my head. Which did nothing for the stabbing pain behind my eyes. “Why would you tell me to come home?”

Trevor blew out a breath. “Because this is exactly the kind of thing Mac is looking to exploit. He’s going to try to make something of this—claim that you and Logan are together. Romantically. Do I really need to explain this to you? Hasn’t Taryn told you that? She’s the PR guru. You can’t tell me it hasn’t crossed her mind.”

It had.

Over the past few hours, every time Taryn and I had spoken, she’d dropped little hints about what to expect. She’d never mentioned Mac though. Not that it mattered. There was no way I was leaving Logan.

Shuffling to the window, I glared down at the army of reporters lining the sidewalk and blocking part of the street. The police had set up a barricade, but it didn’t help much.

“What do I care what Mac or the press say? I’m not married I’m a …” pressing my forehead to the glass, I tried not to wince, “widow.” The label conjured up images of older women dressed in black. Mournful. Pining. My hand crept to my belly. “I’m allowed to date.”

Trevor inhaled sharply. “Wait … Are you telling me …” I didn’t rush to fill the dead air, letting my silence do the talking. A moment passed before he sighed again. “Well, this is unexpected.”

My lips curved into a smile. Unexpected, yes. And magical. And messy as fuck.

“Answer me this,” he continued in a wary tone. “Is this just a friends with benefits kind of thing? Or are y’all … together?”

Whatever Trevor’s reason for asking, I knew it went beyond curiosity. Which meant I should answer truthfully. I don’t know. But I couldn’t bring myself to give my doubts a voice. Not here. If Logan and I were destined to end after the tour, we’d figure it out in Austin. Paris wouldn’t take this from me too.

I pulled my shoulders back. “I’m not coming home, Trevor. I’m staying. Now tell me what I need to do to get Lo out of jail. A bond? Money’s no object.”

The attorney chuckled. “All righty, then. I guess that answers that.”

I detected a smile in his voice and I hoped it wasn’t sardonic. A grim warning about the man he’d known longer than I had. I pushed the thought aside, because I knew all I needed to know about Logan. He brought me cookies and he made me laugh. And I loved him.

“I’ve already spoken with the Procureur de la République,” Trevor went on. “It was combat mutuel.”

Frustration bubbled under my skin. “English! We didn’t all go to law school.”

Another chuckle. “I didn’t learn French at UT. That came courtesy of summering on the Riviera.” I was about to reach through the phone and knock Trevor on his entitled ass. Maybe he sensed it, because he rushed to say, “Logan won’t be charged. The magistrate deemed it mutual combat. The stalking laws in France are quite favorable to celebrities.”

It was my turn to laugh. More from relief than anything else. “Didn’t seem like it this morning.”

“Ahhh … the perils of living in a free country. There’s no law against taking pictures. Or gathering on a sidewalk.”

Disgusted, I turned my back on the vultures in the street. “Tell that to Princess Di.”

Trevor hissed air through his teeth. “Yeah … Good point. It might be best to keep Logan out of their path if you can. This thing is going to be everywhere. The story will grow legs like no other, both there and here.“

I let my head fall back, knowing he spoke the truth, but unable to reply with more than a nod he couldn’t see.

“Mac will use it against you in the court of public opinion to justify all his shit,” Trevor warned, the edge in his tone unmistakable. “Hopefully, I’ll have some good news on that front by the time you get back.”

I perked up. “News? On Mac?”

Trevor seemed to ponder for a minute as if he hadn’t meant to reveal so much. “I can’t say anything right now. You can’t be a part of it. Hell, I shouldn’t even be a part of it.”

Well, that didn’t sound cryptic at all. But honestly, I had too much on my plate to delve any deeper, so I blew out a resigned breath. “Okay.”

I stopped short of telling Trevor I trusted him, because I didn’t know if I did. He managed to use his contacts or his charisma or both to perform small miracles. And I wasn’t sure I wanted the details.

“About Logan,” he said, clucking his tongue. “I’m reading over this email from the magistrate. They need a copy of his passport. And that’s about it. Unless you’re planning on pressing charges against the photographers. If you are, it could hold things up a bit.”

“No charges.”

“All right, then. I’ve got a meeting and I need to mainline some coffee. Someone woke me up at two in the morning. Thanks for that, by the way.”

With the amount of money I paid Trevor, I was entitled to a little after hours attention. “You’re welcome. I’ll call if I need anything.”

“I’m sure you will.”

With a snort, I headed to the bedroom to look for Logan’s passport. Pain stole what little concentration I had, and I found myself perched on the mattress, glancing over the items on his nightstand. Throat spray. Loose change. And my tattered copy of Wuthering Heights. After I’d mentioned it was my favorite book, Logan took an interest, and occasionally I caught him thumbing through the worn pages.

Focus.

Hauling the heavy backpack onto my lap, I flipped open the side pocket. Jesus, he was a slob. Pens. Candy. His black Amex card. Really? Shaking my head, I plucked the piece of plastic from the mess with the intent of putting it back in his wallet. Where it belonged. But I stopped myself at the last minute.

Not your job.

Finding no passport, I sighed and then peeked into the main compartment. There was so much stuff, I couldn’t see the bottom, so I started pulling out handfuls of junk and tossing it on the bed. A wrinkled stack of papers on the top of the growing pile caught my eye.

Snagging my bottom lip between my teeth, I stared at the Metro Music seal. Considering the state of the backpack, the documents were probably old. Right?

My inner bitch raised a skeptical brow.

Shaking my head, I resumed my search. By the time I found the passport, I was consumed. But was it curiosity or suspicion? Either way, I had to look.

And when I did, I wished I hadn’t.

Artist Recording Contract

The following shall constitute an agreement between, Logan Cage (a solo artist) hereafter referred to as the “Artist,” and Metro Music Limited, hereafter referred to as “us” or “we”…

The date of commencement was blank. But the contract itself was drawn just days before we left for the tour.

Logan was leaving Twin Souls? The band? Me?

“Until…”

That’s all he’d ever promised. And now I knew why.

My stomach flipped as I pictured Logan sitting in the rain on my front steps in Austin. Did he mean to tell me then? And why hadn’t he?

Slumping against the headboard, I perused the terms. Phrases like “Artist shall provide any information not deemed proprietary with regard to current representation” and, “Artist agrees to sever all contracts with Twin Souls,” jumped off the page. And so much more. It was obvious that Mac’s legal team constructed the contract with one goal in mind: to hurt me. My company. My legacy.

I pushed to my feet, candy wrappers and postcards fluttering to the carpet. Staggering to the living room, I dropped onto the couch and gazed out the window at the Eiffel Tower, framed by a cloudless Parisian sky. Finding no beauty, only cold steel and heartless glass, I tried to muster the energy to be mad, but in the end, all I could do was hope to stay upright. And keep breathing.