CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

A glass display case stacked with chocolate tartes, raspberry cakes, and flaky croissants beckoned to him. Across from the hotel, the Roussillon bakery had long lines, but boasted the arrondissement’s speediest bakers, or so Annalise had told him. “The line moves quickly.”

“Good. Because I’m hungry. You keep me working hard all night long,” he said with a wink.

She nudged him. “And you love my workouts.”

“I do. And right now, I’d love breakfast,” he said, his mouth watering as he surveyed the shelves of baked goods, from baguettes and rolls, to éclairs and strawberry pastries.

When they reached the cashier, Annalise ordered a baguette and a coffee éclair. The woman stuffed a loaf into a white paper bag, then wrapped an éclair in paper and twisted the ends.

“Pour vous?” she asked him.

In painful, deliberately prolonged, Americanized French, he said, “Je voudrais un abricot tarte.”

Annalise rolled her eyes at his bastardized pronunciation, especially how he made tarte sound precisely like the French word for yogurt. On purpose. The woman behind the counter bent down, reached into the register case, and grabbed a small jar of yogurt. She thrust it at him.

“Wait, wait. I would also like an apricot tarte,” he said, in his best French. He was rewarded with a grin and the treat.

Outside, they parked themselves at a small wooden table.

“Now the test. You hate coffee, but do you like coffee éclairs?”

“Let’s find out.”

As a cool breeze blew by, and a hint of gray swelled the sky, she slid the éclair to him. He bit into it, savoring the sweetness. He hummed around the flaky pastry, and wiggled his eyebrows.

“So that’s a yes?”

He nodded. “Big yes. You keeping a list of my favorite things?”

“Perhaps I am,” she said, and his heart thumped harder, simply because she’d truly wanted to know. She’d followed through. She was curious about his everyday wishes and wants.

They traded bites of the tarte, shared the yogurt, and pulled off chunks of bread as Parisians strolled by on a Sunday morning. Soon the sky darkened, and raindrops splashed across the cobbled sidewalk.

They tossed the remnants of their late breakfast into a trash can, and he offered her a hand. “You know what’s good to do in the rain?”

“I do,” she said, cupping his cheeks and kissing him as the world around them turned gray and wet and cool.

He moved his lips to her ear. “You smell like falling rain.”

“Do you like it?”

“I love it,” he said, lacing his fingers through her hair and inhaling her, so glad he didn’t have to rely on a letter to get his fix.

She pulled back to look at him as if she was searching his face, studying his eyes, uncovering new truths about him, and maybe herself, too. “I think this is more than falling.”

His heart beat faster, soaring to the sky, and he could hardly believe that life could be so good, so sweet. It was even better when they returned to his room and spent the next few hours in bed, taking their time, discovering even more, falling even deeper.

* * *

A small fire blazed in a fireplace, warming the centuries-old building that housed the tiny restaurant not far from the Eiffel Tower. Framed artwork of eggs, asparagus, and tomatoes lined one white wall. Another wall was red brick. White cloths draped the tables.

It was Michael’s last night here, and already she missed him. The empty ache had started before he even left. She wanted him here. Wanted him to stay. She’d loved every moment with him.

Right now she simply loved watching him talk to Patrick, Noelle’s husband. With the dinner plates cleared away, and the dessert served, they were discussing French politics and world affairs. Admittedly, it was kind of sexy to hear him so deep in conversation, a glass of red wine in his hand, his blue button-down shirt revealing a small patch of skin at his throat that she wanted to kiss.

Her lips longed to press against his chest. Her fingers itched to undress him. Her heart ached to have him close.

Especially since he fit so well with her family.

She understood even better why he’d learned French—to be able to talk like this, to be a part of her life. It was such a heady thing, such a romantic endeavor. She’d marveled at what he’d done, and now she witnessed it. This meal with her sister, her mother, and Patrick was one of the first times she’d heard him speak her language for this long. He was flawless, and kind of crazy sexy with his American accent. He didn’t have the sloppy pronunciation of those who’d grown up knowing French. Every word was articulated.

He’d talked to her mother, too, during the meal, catching up first on some of her favorite French news from the radio she loved, and then she’d plied him with questions about Las Vegas. Was the Strip larger than life? Yes. Were the hotels as big as they seemed? Absolutely. Was the city full of sin? He’d answered yes to that one, too, a sad smile on his face.

She was amazed how much he loved his home, in spite of all the pain he’d gone through there. But that was behind him now that the last man had been taken in. They hadn’t spent much time diving into details of the final arrest. Michael seemed to want to move on, and she couldn’t fault him for not lingering on the specifics. Perhaps that was part of why he appeared so carefree again, so much the man she’d known when she was younger, yet so much this new man, too. Strong, protective, and yet vulnerable. She’d never known someone to put his heart on the line the way Michael had for her.

“He’s a good man.”

Annalise turned to meet her mother’s light green eyes. Her voice was soft, a whisper just for her.

She nodded. “He is.”

Her mother’s hand, wrinkled from years, pressed to her forearm. “I’m glad you’re letting yourself be happy.”

“Me, too.”

Knowing eyes stared back at her. “Have you told him how you feel?”

“Sure. He knows how I feel,” she said.

Her mother squeezed her arm. “No. Have you told him you’re in love with him, too?”

She froze, with the glass of wine on the way to her lips. She was falling, yes. But in love? It couldn’t happen that fast. Not for her. Not when love was such a dangerous thing? Not when being in love meant she could be cleaved in two again?

“You should tell him,” her mother urged.

Annalise parted her lips, but words didn’t come. She wasn’t sure what to say, or if she could even give voice to all these questions stirring inside her. Was she ready to go into the fire once more?

“Tell him soon,” her mother whispered, then she pressed a kiss to Annalise’s cheek before continuing. “There are only two men you’ve ever brought to meet me. Julien and Michael. He loves you so. And I know it’s not a one-way street. I see the way you look at him. I see how you lean close to him. How your world seems to be his world.”

A lump rose in her throat. Her eyes welled with tears, but none fell.

After the check came and Michael insisted on paying, Annalise’s mother announced loudly that Patrick and Noelle would walk her home.

Noelle nodded vigorously. “Yes. We’ll help her up the steps.”

“Go,” her mother said, shooing them along. “Your home is around the corner.”

They said their good-byes, and Michael and Annalise turned the other direction. “They seem to want us to go to my house,” she said, floating the idea.

He tensed.

“Would you want to?”

“I’m not sure.”

She stopped on the street, reached for his hand, then looked him in the eyes. “We’re doing this, right?”

“Of course we are.”

“I want you to see where I live. You’re not just some man I’m slinking away to a hotel room to be with. You’ve had dinner with my family. I want you in my home. You’re part of my heart. Part of my life.”

He pressed his forehead to hers. His breath ghosted across her skin. His arms looped around her. With him, she felt so much potential, so much possibility, so much future.

She took him to her home.

* * *

I can handle this.

As he walked up the curving, carpeted staircase, his palm running along the dark oak banister, he steeled himself.

He’d run military intelligence. He’d negotiated with some of the toughest motherfuckers in the security business. He’d helped his sister through tragedy. He’d survived the splintering of his family, making sure his younger siblings were cared for.

He could walk into the home Annalise had lived in with her husband. No problem whatsoever.

Inhaling quietly, he let the air fill his chest, imagined it transporting strength throughout his body—even though each step was leaden, each footfall heavier than the last.

Get your shit together, Sloan. Man up

Annalise unlocked the green door. It creaked open, and pride shimmered in her eyes. Her irises danced as she held out her arm and led him through the narrow foyer into the small kitchen.

“My home,” she said, beaming.

He catalogued the room. Red espresso cups. Sky blue dishes in the dish rack, and a clean sink.

Piece of cake. This was so manageable.

They wandered into a tiny living room, and before he could look around, she gestured to French doors that opened into a small den.

“This is my office,” she said proudly, and showed him some of the framed photos on the wall, shots she’d taken over the years. There were a few images from the Middle East that had won her awards, but mostly the photos were of simpler things.

A lemon yellow dresser.

A crowded street-side café.

A leaf blowing across the sidewalk. Even a few of her black and white boudoir shots.

“You really are talented,” he said, and his voice was calm, steady. This was easier than he’d thought. He didn’t know why he’d been such a wreck about seeing her home.

Until he spun around and drank in her living room for the first time.

Her husband was all he saw. A framed photo on her built-in bookcase of him holding a handful of maps under his arm. Wincing, Michael connected the dots. In the picture, Julien stood outside the map shop they’d passed last night.

Another image showed him drinking coffee, looking studious. Another everyday moment.

Michael’s eyes roamed to the low table that held a frame of her husband riffling through postcards at a sidewalk dealer. Cringing, Michael realized he’d walked along the Seine with her yesterday, maybe even past that dealer.

Her hand ran up his arm. It was warm and comforting, but right now he didn’t want it.

His reaction was emotional, not rational. It was passionate, not thoughtful. He could have devised a million logical explanations to settle his brain and cool his nerves. Instead, raw emotions pricked at him.

“There’s nothing I can do with you that you haven’t done,” he bit out.

“Don’t say that,” she said gently.

He gestured broadly. “He’s everywhere. His imprint is everywhere,” he said, and he felt like an ass. He turned around, his eyes narrowed. “And I feel like a complete fucking schmuck for saying that and feeling that.”

“You’re not,” she said, shaking her head, her voice soft. “But your imprint is everywhere too. I have an entire photo album of our year together in Las Vegas. I’ve held on it. I took it to university. I even looked at it the other day before you came here, along with the photos I took of you at Caesars. One of those photos is on my desktop right now as I decide how I want to frame it or crop it.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, and for the first time wondered if Julien had felt this way too. If he’d been crazed enough to want to have this woman all to himself, to erase her history, and mark her only with him. Michael would have wholly understood. Because this intense need to be her only, as selfish and single-minded as it was, gnawed at him.

“Doesn’t that matter to you?” she asked, frustration in her rising voice. “Knowing how much you mattered to me? I carried you with me in the only way I could. But Michael, this is unfair. This is where I have lived for the last several years. Do you want me to pretend I didn’t have a life when we were apart? Should I have hidden all the photos? Tucked them away in a drawer and whitewashed my home?” She tapped her chest. “This is me. This is who I am. I’ve been married, and I don’t want to have to apologize for it over and over.”

Ah hell. He was a complete fucking jerk for feeling this way. He lowered his gaze to the cranberry red carpet with geometric patterns, poised to grovel, embarrassed at his ragged jealousy. But then a thought crashed unbidden into his mind, and he couldn't help but wonder if Julien had fucked her on this carpet. A wave of self-loathing slammed into him. He was envious of a dead man. He was eaten up by the fact that she’d had a husband. Who. Had. Died.

Michael was alive.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, though he knew that wasn’t enough.

She placed a hand on his arm. “Just because I cared for him, doesn't mean I can’t feel for you. You seem to forget that I was in love with you before I met him, and yet I was still able to love him and be happy. So I wish you would stop thinking I’m incapable of this. That I can’t feel so much for you. It’s not fair.”

Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he was too stubborn. Too narrow. But this woman – she was it for him. She was all for him. And that feeling inside him, of never wanting to be without her, made him rash.

“Do you still love him?” His throat was raw as he gave voice to his darkest fear.

“Michael,” she said, “a part of me always will. But I’m falling in love with you now.”

He swallowed, collecting himself. He drew a deep breath, trying to let it out while taking in what she’d just said. But his chest churned with black and white and gray emotions, and he didn’t know how to wrestle them to the ground and have them make sense. Instead, he spoke carefully. “Your home is beautiful. But I can’t be here.”

“But this is where I live. I want to show it to you,” she said, imploring.

He shut his eyes. “I know. But I need to go. And I would like to spend the night with you elsewhere.”

At the hotel he made love to her deep into the evening, letting the sex blot out the blackness in his heart, the ugly jealousy in his soul. For so long he’d been defined by loving her. It was who he was. He didn’t know how to take only half of her heart when she had all of his completely.

He didn’t want to be her second best, and yet he felt like the runner-up. The whole truth of his love for her boiled down to this—she could have chosen him in Marseilles, and she didn’t.

Maybe it was unfair to feel that way, but it was true. He’d put his heart on the line then, and if she’d wanted him, she could have called off the engagement and they could have run away together.

That was what gnawed at him.

And he wished that he could go home and ask his father’s advice.