THE NEXT MORNING Mathieu was waiting for me on the sidewalk outside the front door. His back was against the building and he was staring at a pâtisserie across the street.

He turned to me, his face guarded. “Have you eaten?”

“What?” I shook my head. “No.”

Without a word, he jaywalked across the street and went into the bakery. I followed.

“What do you like here?” he asked, looking in the glass case.

“I don’t know. I haven’t eaten here.”

His eyes widened. “You’re kidding. It’s one of the best in the city. What about when you stayed home the last few days?”

“I just stayed in the apartment and practiced.”

He said something in French, then pointed to the case. “What would you like?”

“I didn’t bring any money.”

“I didn’t ask if you had money. I asked what you wanted.”

“I don’t—”

“I’m getting something, and it would be rude to eat something delicious in front of you, so what would you like?”

I considered arguing, but I was hungry. I’d left before I had a chance to eat. Besides, I was in a pastry shop with a cute French boy who wanted to buy my breakfast. I couldn’t turn that down.

The case was filled with delicious-looking confections, but I decided to go with something that looked familiar even if it had a name I didn’t recognize. What if I ended up with something stuffed with snails? They ate those here, right? But how could I go wrong with a croissant stuffed with chocolate? “I’ll take a pain au chocolat.” I pronounced it phonetically.

He grinned. “It’s pan oh choc-o-lat.” The baker approached us and asked something in French, and Mathieu turned to me with a grin. “Now order it in French.”

“I don’t know French.”

He laughed. “I just told you how to say it. Try it.”

I repeated what Mathieu had said, and the woman pulled the pastry out of the case and put it into a bag before handing it to me. I didn’t catch the name of the round flaky pastry Mathieu ordered, but I did recognize what he ordered next. Cappuccino.

She made two and put them on the counter as Mathieu handed her money.

“How did you know I’d want a cappuccino?” I asked.

He grinned. “You can’t have une pâtisserie sans café.”

I stared at him for a moment, dazzled by his smile. I hadn’t seen it much since he’d found me on the subway platform. He truly was a gorgeous guy. The sunlight was behind him, making a shiny glow around his dark wavy hair. The blue in his shirt made his eyes more cerulean than usual. I forced myself to look away, confused by his actions as well as my own. I added a sugar packet to my cup, pretending it was fascinating to hide my embarrassment.

We walked in silence as we ate our pastries and sipped our drinks. I was surprised the cappuccino was better than any coffee I’d had back home.

Mathieu was leading me in the opposite direction from the Eiffel Tower.

“Where did you tell your brother you were going?” he asked.

“I told him I was going for a walk.”

“And if you’re gone for a couple of hours?”

The thought of playing a real piano for a couple of hours made me giddy. “I told him I wanted to explore. As long as I’m back by ten thirty, he won’t worry.”

“I’m surprised he let you go.”

I turned to look at him, wondering why he had that impression. Was it because of what happened the day before? “He doesn’t care what I do. Besides, he and Dane are pissed at each other right now. That has him preoccupied.” They had hardly spoken since they’d come home yesterday afternoon, but Dane was so besotted with Camille, he didn’t seem to notice.

Mathieu unlocked the front doors of his building and led me to an elevator. “We are on the fourth floor. You can take the small elevator or the stairs.”

“Which one are you taking?”

He grinned. “The stairs.”

“Lead the way.” I figured I could at least try to work off the pastry.

I was out of breath when we reached his landing, but less so than I would have been a week ago. Turned out Paris was full of stairs.

Mathieu handed me his now empty cup and unlocked the door. He took both empty cups from me as he pushed the door open. We entered a small entry hall, and then he led me through a door into a large room with a black grand piano.

I gasped and stopped in my tracks. “It’s a Steinway. How’d you get it up here?”

“It’s my mother’s. And they pulled it through the window. Go on,” he said, closing the door behind him and tossing the cups somewhere.

A wall of windows overlooked the building across the street. The bright morning sun filled the room, making the black gloss on the piano shine. I had never seen anything so beautiful. “She won’t mind?” I whispered.

His eyes twinkled. “No.”

“Then why are we keeping it a secret from her?”

He scowled. “Camille.”

The mention of my stepsister almost destroyed my good mood. Almost. How could I be anything but happy when I was about to play a Steinway? I pulled my sheet music out of my bag and moved closer to the piano. This was too good to be true.

Mathieu propped open the lid.

“Won’t it be too loud?” The lid would muffle the sound a little bit, but my playing would likely be heard in all the apartments around us.

“They are used to it. Besides, they are all at work. Sit.”

I sat down on the bench and opened the fall—keyboard lid—then trailed my finger down the ivory keys. I glanced up at Mathieu, who stood to the side watching me. He nodded, the solemn look on his face indicating that he understood how special this was to me, and walked away.

I started with scales, letting my fingers warm up, reveling in the sound, marveling at the responsiveness of the keys. Steinways are one of the best for a reason, and I had never hoped to play one anywhere outside of a piano showroom. Once my fingers were loosened, I lost myself in the rich, powerful sound, ignoring the sheet music in front of me. I didn’t want to think about what I was playing—I only wanted to feel the music.

I’d made it through countless pieces before I glanced up and saw Mathieu standing at the piano’s side. I stopped and he said, “We need to leave if we’re going to be back by ten thirty.”

“But I thought I had almost two hours,” I asked, puzzled.

He smiled. “You’ve been playing that long.”

I’d been playing for almost two hours? I reverently closed the fall as Mathieu lowered the lid. I stood and grabbed the sheet music I’d never played, then stuck it in my bag. “Mathieu . . . this was . . . I don’t know how I can repay you. Thank you.”

He smiled softly. “Would you like to play again tomorrow?”

I sucked in a breath. “Are you serious?”

“You’re very good, Sophie. You need to play on a real piano.”

Tears filled my eyes. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll play again tomorrow.”

How could I say no to that? “Okay.”

He led me back down the stairs and out the front door. I looked up at him with surprise. “You don’t have to walk me back, Mathieu.”

He grinned. “Your brother told me I had to watch out for you. I wouldn’t want to face him if something happened to you.”

“He doesn’t even know you’re with me.”

“All the more reason for me to make sure you get back safely. No one but me knows where you are.”

The scaredy-cat part of me had to agree with him, even though I felt confident I could make it back okay. But I liked spending time with him, not that I’d admit it. I wasn’t going to argue with him.

“How long have you played?” he asked once we were on the sidewalk, headed back to my father’s apartment building.

“Since I was in kindergarten. My grandmother played. I used to listen to her when I was little, so unlike most kids, I couldn’t wait to take lessons. I have an upright at home. Nothing like yours.” I turned to look at him. “Does your mother play much?”

“Not as much as she used to. But when she does . . .” His soft smile lifted the corners of his lips. “It’s beautiful.”

“And you don’t want to play?”

His grin turned playful. “We all have a unique set of strengths and weaknesses. After several years, it became apparent to me that playing the piano wasn’t one of my gifts. My last recital ended in disaster. I forgot all the music and started playing ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.’ ” He laughed. “My mother was horrified.”

“How old were you?”

His eyebrows lifted, and he gave me a mischievous look. “Thirteen.”

“What?” I couldn’t help giggling.

He gave me an ornery grin. “It was an effective way to stop taking piano.”

My eyes widened. “You did it on purpose.”

“I’ll never confess.” His shoulder lifted into a lazy shrug. “Do you plan to study music at uni?”

“Yes.”

“Since your father lives here now, do you plan to study in Paris?”

That nearly stopped me in my tracks. I’d never seriously considered the possibility—daydreamed, sure, but not as a serious goal. “That would be amazing, but no. I’m not that good.”

“You should consider it. You’re better than you think you are.”

I was sure he was just being kind. But then his mother was a piano teacher, so he was used to hearing the good, the bad, and the ugly. Still, only the best of the best could study in Paris.

The rest of the way we swapped tales about our years of lessons and the songs we’d played. After Mathieu admitted he’d been learning the Warsaw Concerto before he quit, I called him on his earlier statement about not being good.

He paused for a moment. “Music is art. I was technically proficient, yet something was missing. I didn’t enjoy it, and you could hear it in the music. But you . . .” An embarrassed look crossed his face. “My mother gets the same expression when she plays.”

We had reached my front door and both stopped, standing there in silence. I wasn’t sure how to respond to his statement, but I wasn’t ready to say good-bye yet. There was a tenuous connection growing between us again. His arm softly brushed mine and my skin tingled.

Without Camille in the equation, Mathieu was the kind of guy I’d kill to date—cute, funny, and thoughtful. But my stepsister was very much a part of the equation. And that ruined everything. Still, I couldn’t make myself go inside.

Finally, he asked, “What will you tell your brother tomorrow?”

“The same thing I told him today.”

“And he’ll believe you?”

It was my turn to shrug. “I guess we’ll find out.” When he looked worried, I added, “I won’t tell them what you did, Mathieu. I’ll make him believe me.”

He frowned, looking down at his feet. “I’m sorry . . . Camille . . .”

I sighed. “Yeah. Camille.”

The mention of her was enough to break the spell. I said good-bye and went upstairs, fully expecting Eric to give me the third degree. But he was absorbed in playing a video game with Dane. Apparently they’d made up. Camille was sitting on the sofa, reading a book. She looked up at me with a gleam in her eyes. “What have you been up to?”

“Just walking around. I figure I should see as much as I can.” Then I added, “Who knows when I’ll ever be back?” I figured she’d like that.

She smiled, then looked over her shoulder and asked the boys something in French.

I went back into the hall and snuck my sheet music out of the bag and onto the piano. Could I get away with this again tomorrow? If their disinterest today was any indication, it might work.

Eric walked out of the living room and cast a glance toward me. “You don’t have time to practice. We’re meeting Camille’s friends at the Rodin museum.”

“Do French teenagers really spend this much time at museums? Don’t they ever hang out at the pool?”

“Have you seen any pools around here?”

I hadn’t, but I almost said that there had to be one somewhere because Mathieu’s brother swam in the mornings. But I bit my tongue. I wouldn’t betray his confidence.

“When are we going to see the Eiffel Tower?”

Camille walked up behind Eric, grimacing as if she’d taken a bite from a sour apple. “Going to museums is bad enough. There’s no way we’re doing something as touristy as the Eiffel Tower.” She released an exaggerated sigh. “But my mother says I must play tour guide, so my friends feel sorry for me and come.”

Eric gave her an exasperated look. “We don’t need a babysitter or a tour guide. I don’t expect you to take me anywhere.”

I didn’t hide my surprise. So Eric was tired of her crap too.

“Speak for yourself,” Dane said. “I like it when she plays tour guide.”

Camille gave him a sweet smile, and I noticed Eric gave them a glare before he headed to his room.

I followed and stood in his doorway. “I think I’m going to stay here for the afternoon.”

He picked up his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. “No. You’re going.”

“Since when do you care what I do?”

“You’re my little sister. Of course I care.”

I released a short laugh. “Try again.”

He looked up and his jaw tightened. “What happened yesterday was messed up. I told Julien if he ever tried anything like that again, I’d beat the crap out of him.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “You don’t have to do that on my account.”

“Yes. I do.”

“Well . . . thanks. But I think it’s our new sister we have to worry about.”

He frowned. “I know. But I talked to her too. She says she’ll leave you alone.”

That surprised me. On both counts. “And you believe her?”

“I’d like to.”

“Since when did you become so optimistic?”

“Since when did you start wandering off on your own?”

Instead of answering, I went into Camille’s room and pulled some money out of my suitcase. Camille hovered in the doorway, but I ignored her.

When I stood to leave, she blocked my exit.

“What do you want, Camille? Normal people just spit it out.”

A strange look crossed her face—a combination of worry and fear. “Why didn’t you tell my mother about the catacombs? Or what happened in the subway?”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Are you admitting guilt?”

“No, I’m just asking why you didn’t mention it.”

I put my hand on my hip. “Look, I’ve said this once and I’ll say it again. I don’t want to be here. I’m no threat to you. As soon as this summer is over, I hope we don’t see each other again for a very long time. I just want you to leave me alone.”

Something wavered in her eyes. “Fine.” Then she turned around and left.

I still didn’t trust her, but I was going to hope for the best.