Rohan pulled a navy knit cap over his hair, slid on a pair of shades and buttoned up his long, wool coat.

“Incognito-level achieved?” I slid on my own heart-shaped sunglasses, keeping my expression bland.

“If I’m lucky.” Rohan saw the glasses and mimed having a heart attack. I giggled. He jerked his head to the road running left from the hotel. “This way.”

“For someone who hates fame so much, you’re not an asshole to fans.”

“The other night notwithstanding,” he said with a wry twist of his mouth. “My mom made sure I understood what a gift of time, love, and money fans gave me. But this is about you. You’ve been dealing with a lot and you need a break. Luckily you’re in the perfect city, with the perfect tour guide.”

“Luckily.”

Rohan’s disguise worked because we weren’t given a second look as we crossed the street into the middle of the rectangular plaza. “Wenceslas Square,” he said.

“Of Christmas carol fame.”

“Of revolution fame.” He pointed up to the top of the square. “Imagine this entire space filled with Communist tanks. That’s what happened in the late 60s.”

I shivered, imagining row upon row of Soviet tanks looming large under a gray sky. The image faded, replaced with the reality of food trucks and art deco hotels. I cocked my head, taking in the most majestic building. “That hotel is probably a hundred, hundred and fifty years old. Vancouver pre-dates it by a bit. But we don’t have anywhere near the sense of history that infuses Europe.” I loved the idea of being deeply rooted in something.

He let me admire it for another couple of minutes before cheekily saying, “Stay with the group,” and walking off. He led me down to the river and these two weird modern buildings that stuck out amidst the surrounding architecture. The one on the right was a round cylinder with rectangular windows all the way around. The building narrowed at the bottom, a single pole protruding from the bottom like a leg.

The building to the left was made of glass, its middle bent in toward the first building, pressing up against it. A triangle jutted out from the glass toward the cylinder, almost like a hand, while it was supported by struts like legs.

Rohan watched me expectantly.

I bounced on my toes. “It looks like a couple dancing!” The glass building had a woman’s shape, and looked like she was about to be swung around by her partner. The energy and dynamism in them was astounding.

“Dancing House. Nicknamed Fred and Ginger.”

I pressed a hand to my heart. “Stop. I’m not going to be able to leave this city.” I made him take a selfie with me in front of it then took one last fond look at Dancing House before we trekked back to Old Town Square, a huge cobblestoned space whose edges seamlessly blended into numerous restaurant patios. The square was anchored by a bronze commemorative statue of some guy standing on a large stone base. Tourist central on this sunny day.

Rohan dodged the many tour operators marching their charges from attraction to attraction. He might not have been recognized but he was certainly noticed. I was shot more than one dark look at my audacity in being with him.

He stopped in front of this crazy clock tower running up the side of a very old building at one end of the square. Two large clock faces, one a swirl of color, the other gold, were adorned with small figures and astrological symbols. “It’s a medieval astronomical clock.” He checked his watch. “Give it a sec.”

The clock began to ring. Two small panels at the top slid open, revealing a parade of moving figures. Saints or something given the crosses some held. Rohan nudged me, directing my attention to the skeleton ringing a bell along the right side of the tower. “Death.”

I pressed my hands together by my cheek. “Awww. That’s so sweet.”

A minute later it was over. Rohan pointed at the twin gothic spires visible behind the small modern art museum at the opposite end of the square. “Tyn Church.”

“It looks like the nightmare version of the Sleeping Beauty castle.”

“Some say it was Disney’s inspiration.” He gazed up at it. “It inspired me. I wrote the song ‘Slumber’ about it.”

One of Fugue State Five’s later hits. “‘Trapped in a limbo with no way out but down.’” I shook my head at the first line of the chorus. “Hard as it is to believe, you’re a ray of sunshine now in comparison.”

“I work my issues out in other ways.”

“For which we are all thankful.”

His eyes roamed my body like tiny licks of flame. “How thankful?”

My stomach growled before I could reply.

“Feeding time,” he announced cheerfully.

It took me a second to get my feet to move. How he switched on and off like that was beyond me. Unless, of course, it was more game playing and didn’t matter one way or the other to him.

Reset.

We wove our way through twisted streets, coming out at the foot of the Charles Bridge. Passing under a heavy, dark tower, we stepped onto the pedestrian-only bridge that was thronged with tourists taking selfies, browsing the photo and jewelry kiosks that lined either side, having a caricature drawn, or watching the occasional busker do a marionette performance.

It took longer than I expected to walk its length. “Malá Strana,” Rohan said, waving a hand at the neighborhood we found ourselves in on the far side. “Lesser Town.”

The architecture here was astounding as well. I could have happily wandered the streets for hours staring at the old church spires, red tiled roofs, and arched windows, but Rohan had a specific destination in mind. We entered a nondescript hole-in-the-wall. Dimly lit with rickety wooden tables and chairs, the restaurant was bustling with locals.

Rohan pulled off his knit cap. A lock of hair flopped into his eyes, so he raked his fingers through, pushing back the curl and tousling his hair further.

A harried waiter showed us to the last table, crowded into a back corner. He tossed down a couple of menus.

Rohan handed them back, checking with me. “Did I do well enough the last time I ordered for you that you situationally trust me to do it again?”

“Sure. But if you disappoint, you will be killed.”

“Svickova.” He held up two fingers. “I’ll also have a Pilsner.”

“You want a beer?” the waiter asked me.

“Lemon radler.” Rohan looked horrified at my order. “Some of us are concerned about getting our daily fruit content,” I said.

“Oh no. Not even you can convince yourself of that.”

“That’s cute. You have no idea what I can convince myself of.” I ran my finger over the walls, every inch covered in scratched initials. “Points for local color.” I folded my hands primly on the table. “Tell me the history of this fine establishment.”

He took a drink of the beer the waiter had brought. “No clue.”

“Tour guide fail.” I said, before trying my own drink, which was nicely chilled.

“Never enough with you,” he grumbled. “Okay. Here’s a fun Prague fact. There have been two defenestrations in the town’s history.”

“Based on the French root in that word, I’m gonna guess it has something to do with windows. Out of windows?”

He clinked his glass against mine. “Very good. The act of throwing someone or something out a window. Don’t piss off a Czech unless you’re on ground level.”

“You’re chock full of macabre facts, aren’t you?”

“I excel at playing to my audience. Giving them what they want,” he leered.

I moved my radler, allowing the server to place my food in front of me. I waited until he’d gone to speak. “You were unbearably arrogant as a rock star, weren’t you?”

Rohan picked up his cutlery. “I’m shocked I rate past tense.”

“Well, you’re old now. You’ve mellowed into insufferably cocky.”

“Thank you. I know how much you appreciate cock…y.” He snickered.

“The emotional maturity of a twelve-year-old,” I said, cutting into my lunch. A braised beef, it was served in a creamy vegetable sauce with dumplings on the side. I moaned, swallowing my first bite.

Incredibly, he didn’t comment.

I decided that I liked a man who didn’t need to fill valuable eating time with small talk. Plate cleared and practically licked clean, I sagged back against my chair, my hand on my belly. “If I had a button, I’d totally pop it open right now and nap.”

Rohan paid the bill. “Nope. We’re going to walk off the carbs.”

I groaned but pushed my chair back and followed him outside. “Thank you for lunch.”

He tapped his cheek.

I rolled my eyes, then leaned in and gave him a peck. “That was a thank you appropriate to any family member. To be clear.”

“You’ll be expressing your thanks in a highly inappropriate manner later. To be clear.”

I stumbled at his words. But my nipples went rock hard so he wasn’t wrong. Necessarily. See this? This was good. Fun easy banter followed up by promises of hot monkey sex. Reset achieved. Poppy could rot in Hell. I let out a breath, my rib cage easing out of its tight lock, and skipped after him to catch up.

Our final stop, Rohan informed me, was Prague Castle. A massive complex, we were herded from line-up to line-up, marveling at the magnificence of St. Vitus Cathedral, the fascination of the palace room covered in painted coats-of-arms, and the delight of the tiny colored houses on Gold Lane.

“Enough,” I said at last. “I’m sight-seed out.”

We exited the grounds into a large square near the top of the palace. People took photos of the city skyline over to one side, while one especially stunning neighboring building boasting a tiered roof and intricately painted vines and flowers along a high frieze advertised a Baroque art collection.

I tugged on Rohan’s sleeve. “Selfie time.” He grumbled good-naturedly but obliged, following me as I elbowed our way to the front of the crowd. I held up my phone, adjusting it to get both us and the maximum amount of the city in the shot. “Smile.”

A split second before I took the photo Rohan murmured in my ear, “All of Prague laid out before us.”

My breath caught. I lowered the phone, not wanting to see the expression on my face in the picture in case I’d embarrassed myself. I also had to step away before I did something bad, here, in this very public place.

I walked back into the center of the plaza, wishing for a distraction. Some higher power decided to take pity on my sexually frustrated state because the perfect one zoomed into view. Waving furiously at Rohan, I broke into a run.

The old-fashioned mini tourist train consisted of the engineer’s car pulling two passenger cars with even rows of benches. Open on one side for easy entrance and exit, hard clear plastic formed windows on the outer side.

Rohan eyed the green locomotive. “No.”

“Oh yes.” I climbed into one of the hard-topped cars, sitting down on the wooden bench. “Come on. The sign on top says it goes back to the square in Old Town.” I loved these mini trains, going back to the one in Stanley Park in Vancouver that I rode throughout my childhood. We visited that park year-round and my parents learned to anticipate my pleas to go again. They’d board me with a strip of tickets in my hand so I could ride to my heart’s content while they took Ari to feed the goats at the petting zoo next door.

Rohan sat down beside me, unimpressed.

The train started up smoothly enough. Narration about the plaza blasted out through the scratchy speakers. Rohan glowered at me, his hands clapped over his ears.

I laughed. Which escalated to manic hilarity at his death stares as the train clattered through the streets, winding back down the hill. There was no suspension on this beast and combined with the cobblestones, the two of us were flung around like rag dolls, our bones jarring. My teeth rattled hard enough to break. Tears streamed down my face and I was barely able to catch my breath for laughter.

A French family a few rows behind us made loud, disparaging comments about Americans. As a Canadian, I’d seen enough American backpackers sporting Canadian flags that I was happy to reinforce any bad perception of Americans abroad. Payback.

The train jolted over a bump in the road and Rohan gasped. “My balls,” he groaned, right as the woman seated ahead recognized him, and squealing, snapped a photo of him.

I lost it, clutching a pole for support.

Rohan glared at me. “I hate you.”

By the time the train pulled up in the square, even I had had enough of that ride. Not that I’d admit it. “I’m so happy.”

Rohan unfolded himself like an old man. “You don’t deserve dinner after that.”

Our fellow passenger shyly asked Rohan if she could take her photo with him. I approved of his behavior in complying.

Soon as she was gone, I grabbed his arm, pressing myself against his side. Not ready to let this interlude end. “You’re totally going to take me out, aren’t you? Do you need to check in with Drio?”

“Nah. He’s off sourcing what we need.”

My phone buzzed in my pocket with a text. “It’s from the Assistant Director giving me directions and call time for Samson’s scene tomorrow.” Even though Samson was the reason for our trip, I resented his intrusion on my time with Rohan today. “This is good. I can lure him to the ritual location.”

Since we were tired and Rohan insisted he was broken, we took a taxi back to the hotel. We agreed to meet in the lobby in an hour for dinner. The second I got to my room, I called Leo, putting her on speakerphone as I changed. “I’m so getting laid tonight,” I trilled.

“Been plying your wiles on him?”

I tossed my skirt on the bed. “Not even. But we were sightseeing so–”

“Since when do fuck buddies merit tourist time?”

“Since the assignment is in a momentary lull before the storm. We had a day off and–”

“You played boyfriend and girlfriend?” She sighed.

“Can’t we be friends? Friends with benefits. That’s a thing.” I rooted through my clothing for the right outfit.

“Ten seconds ago he was a fuck buddy.”

“Stop twisting everything.”

“You haven’t let yourself get close to anyone since the great Cole disaster,” she said. “Believe me, I get that Rohan is hot, and he fucks like a god, but guys like that don’t stick around. Remember how wrecked you were after Cole? What do you think Rohan leaving would do to you?”

I slipped into a cute purple dress made up of overlapping tiers of fabric that had a bit of a flapper vibe going for it. Best of all, no zipper. Pull on, pull off. “We work together. Fight together. It’s more than the sex.”

Leo made a strangled noise.

“Hence the friend status.”

“Nava, you’re going to hate me for saying this, but have you considered that maybe you’re falling for him and he doesn’t feel the same?”

I grabbed the phone, taking it off speaker. “Why not? What’s so wrong with me that he wouldn’t want me back? Not that I want him for a boyfriend but thanks so much for making me sound like some cast-off you’d find in the ninety-nine cent bin.”

There was silence for a moment. I sat down on the bed, wondering why I’d bothered to resume our friendship.

“Sweetie, I think you’re the bee’s knees,” Leo said. I snorted at her corny language.

“I mean it. Far as I’m concerned, you’re tops. But from everything you’ve told me, this guy is the master of mixed signals. Throw in his first love who has suddenly re-appeared in his life?” I’d forgotten about Lily. “I fear for when this issue-ridden boy blasts your world apart like an asteroid hit.”

I raked my hands through my hair. “It’s not like that. We’re reset back to easy and uncomplicated.”

Her pause stretched two seconds too long. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Lull before the storm. You’re right. Enjoy it.”

Our good-byes were a tad strained.