Trey

by Christie Ridgway

  Before making a definitive move in any direction, she turned to Trey. “What do you want to see? I’ve read there are over 35,000 unique items and that if you spend thirty seconds in front of each one it will take you six weeks to view them all.”

  “Six weeks?” His eyebrows shot high. “We don’t have that.”

  “Right.” They didn’t have another six days together, which shouldn’t make her stomach flutter, not unless she was falling for him or something.

  She definitely wasn’t doing that.

  He slung his arm around her shoulders again. “C’mon, mermaid, time’s a-wastin’. Pick a direction.”

  Forced to make a decision and because all of it interested her, Mia decided chronological made sense. So they visited the Mesopotamian Code of Hammurabi and went on to other ancient artifacts—sarcophagi, mummies, and the Great Sphinx of Tanis.

  A wrong turn took them to decorative arts and then French paintings and they wandered together without words, surveying canvas after canvas, until Mia’s feet tired and she collapsed onto a bench, gaze on Trey as he continued to take in the amazing art on display.

  He was easy to watch.

  His hands were in his pockets, his down jacket tucked around one wrist. His hair had grown from its strict cut in even the few days they’d been together and he brushed at it every so often with the air of a man swatting an annoying fly.

  She smiled, wondering what he’d look like with it even longer, the strands softening his almost austere features. I’ll draw him that way, she thought, knowing already he’d never agree to forgo his usual visits to a stylist.

  Or barber. Trey Blackthorne wouldn’t indulge his hair any more than he indulged himself.

  He turned, clearly seeking her out, then crossed to take the place beside her.

  She glanced up. “Who cuts your hair? A guy named Sid?”

  A funny expression moved over his face and he looked away. “Julio retired. Now I go to Brock’s guy, Duke.”

  “Oooh. Duke.” She smirked. “Do you get one of those fancy keratin treatments every two weeks before he uses his platinum-bladed shears?”

  “Shall we go up a floor?” he asked, ignoring her teasing. “There’s Flemish art or maybe it’s German.”

  She had to giggle. “You do get a fancy keratin treatment.”

  “Sh!” He glanced around. “It was only the one time. The guy’s relentless.”

  “Nice, though,” she reached up to finger a few strands. “Tell me, does that treatment—”

  “I’ll kiss you again,” he threatened.

  “In the Louvre?” she asked, hand to her chest, pretending to be shocked. Pretending not to be thrilled by the idea of his lips on hers again.

  “Anywhere I want,” he said, in a low voice, beginning to bend near.

  But Mia’s eye caught that of a disapproving guard at the door and she popped to her feet. Museum security didn’t appear as easy to bribe here as at the cemetery. Maybe it wasn’t true that every French person loved a lover. “We should move along,” she said.

  They decided to move all the way to the exit, after admitting they’d both hit their limit. “It’s a lot to take in,” Trey said. “And your feet hurt.”

  Still, Mia sighed as she took a backward look. “It’s so amazing.”

  “Don’t worry.” Trey laced their fingers. “You’ll be back.”

  But it wouldn’t be like this, she thought, looking at their linked hands. It would never be with Trey again, whose touch sent a ribboning wave of sensation up her arm. There would never be a day like this one, and she didn’t want it to end.

  “Let’s ride the Seine boat shuttle,” she said, on impulse. “We don’t have to get off, we can just sit and watch the sites of central Paris go by.”

  It was easy to buy a pass that was good until the boats stopped running for the day, into the early evening. The vessels were long and very stable, with a roof overhead and glass windows that curved for optimum views. They chose a pair of seats near the rear, on the right.

  “Stern,” Trey corrected her. “These seats are on the starboard side.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him, remembering how he’d been raised. “We all don’t have a family yacht,” she said.

  “I grew up around all kinds of boats,” he said, with a faraway look in his eyes. “We spent our summers on them.”

  Nodding, she settled into her seat along the window, her shoulder rubbing his, and she wondered if he realized that despite the news of his parentage that he was still thinking in terms of “we” when it came to the Blackthornes. She couldn’t imagine that would change, not really, and she could only hope he’d find peace with the new situation.

  The truth was, though, she’d likely never know.

  Just another reason why falling for the man would be a supremely bad idea. They were short-time…acquaintances.

  As if to match the sudden melancholy of her mood, the clouds lowered and it began to rain. She shivered and Trey pulled her close. “That damn goose again,” she murmured, excusing herself for not pulling away like a woman who wasn’t falling into some sort of dangerous state should.

  “Tell me about your last guy,” he murmured as drops ran down the glass, copious tears.

  Her shudder was entirely genuine. “I think I liked him because he was too busy for me most of the time,” she admitted. “Nic thought standing me up stroked his ego. I thought he was pretty but a pretty big jerk, which kept me—”

  “In the limo,” Trey finished for her.

  Safe. She sighed. “Maybe so.” Then she glanced up. “Your last…like interest?”

  His grin looked rueful. “I was too busy for her most of the time.” His arm snuggled her closer. “Does that make me a pretty big jerk too?”

  It left him free to cuddle with Mia on a boat on the Seine in Paris, so heck no, she wasn’t going to condemn the man. With another sigh, she rested her head on his shoulder and just…breathed.

  On a boat on the Seine in Paris. With a warm man who had her pulse at this very nice low-level thrum, the kind that could ratchet to tribal pounding if he put his lips anywhere near hers. On her neck, her cheek, maybe even the top of her head.

  Yeah, she was getting more primed for him by the moment.

  But the balance didn’t tip for the entire couple of hours they cruised up and down the waterway, their bodies close together, their breathing in sync. When the boat operator came around and told them they’d have to get off for good at the next stop, they debarked, hands clasped again. It no longer rained, but the tree branches had lost more of their leaves and dripped steadily onto the sidewalks, a subtle splash of noise as they returned to the apartment building.

  There had to be a song for a moment like this, Mia decided. Sung by Edith Piaf, of course, some slow, torchy number that expressed a heart full of yearning. The air smelled fresh and there were others on the street strolling too, Parisians who knew tomorrow morning there would be sunlight and fresh croissants and excellent coffee, but that didn’t mean tonight should be rushed.

  Tonight, a half-block from their separate beds, a man should turn a woman into his arms and kiss her lavishly, romantically, cinematic-style as if a famous filmmaker might be hiding behind a nearby car or in a doorway, capturing the moment for all time.

  That particular moment when the woman dashed caution to a wet sidewalk and—

  “Mia?” a voice called her name. “Mia Thomas?”

  As if coming out of a dream, she broke the kiss, her head slowly coming around, her body moving away from Trey’s. “Eric?” she said, though she could see the older man’s face clearly in the streetlight. It just didn’t make sense, Nic’s uncle Eric here in Paris.

  She hurried toward him, aware that Trey kept pace with her.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked the older man.

  He hugged her, then looked at her companion, forcing her to make introductions before getting her explanation. “This is Nicolette’s mother’s brother,” she
told Trey.

  “I’m in the city on business,” Eric said. “I wasn’t sure I’d have time to see you before catching a flight to Munich, but I took a chance.” His gaze went to a car at the curb. “I actually have a taxi waiting.”

  “Can you come in anyway?” she asked.

  “I shouldn’t.” He hesitated, and he glanced at Trey.

  “Hey, I’m going to go up, okay?” her handsome companion said, smoothly taking the hint. “Will you be all right? My phone needs charging.”

  “Of course!” she replied, and hardly blushed at all when he squeezed her shoulder and dropped a kiss on the top of her hair.

  Both she and Eric watched him disappear into the apartment building. Then she turned to him. “What is it? What couldn’t be handled with a call or text?”

  Eric shrugged. “I wanted to see for myself how you’re doing. Victor and Anne know you must be having a hard time.”

  He didn’t say anything about the embracing and more he’d just witnessed, but he didn’t have to, because she probably still was in a half kiss-daze. “He…Trey…his mother lives in the apartment building. He’s been going through the list with me. Visiting the places.”

  “Has he?” Eric crooked a brow.

  Her neck burned. “Yes,” she said, shoving her hands in the pockets of her jacket. Her fingers found the package of rhinestone bracelets and she felt guilty all over again. Today it had been the flea market and the Louvre, neither which Nic had mentioned. “I’m making progress.”

  “I’m not criticizing,” Eric said gently. “I’m not sure I even think this idea the three of you cooked up about taking the ashes to Paris was a good one.”

  Mia set her jaw. “I know it’s what Nic would have wanted.”

  “Okay, okay.” He held out both hands, placating her. “I’ll say no more.”

  “Thank you.”

  His gaze met hers. “You’re going to be ready to be in Nice on—”

  “Nic’s birthday, yes. I won’t forget.” Mia swallowed. The grace note of her mission was to scatter her best friend’s ashes into the Mediterranean Sea in the south of France, a wish she’d expressed dozens and dozens of times. Victor and Anne couldn’t do it themselves, because Anne had a paralyzing fear of flying, which had made the undertaking Mia’s own. “I won’t let anyone down.”

  Eric winced. “No one for a second thinks you will. But if it becomes too much—”

  “I’ll do it,” Mia said, vehement. “I promised and I will.”

  “Sweetheart...” Eric started, then sighed. “Okay, I’ll let it go. I’m just glad I got a chance to see you and I can tell my sister and Victor we spoke in person.”

  “And that I’m just days away from fulfilling Nic’s wishes,” she said.

  “And that you’re just days away,” Eric repeated. He turned toward the cab, then turned back to envelop Mia in a big hug. “You take care of yourself.”

  She squeezed too. “I will.”

  Then he let her go and winked. “That man seems nice, Mia—Trey. I’m glad you found yourself a little distraction to make things easier.”

  “Right.” A distraction.

  Watching Eric climb into the cab, she thought that over. Trey was a distraction. Not a danger. Not a disaster. She wasn’t falling for the man, just…just using him as a diversion to make the process of saying goodbye to Nic easier.

  A notion that should make her breath come easier too. A spoonful of sugar to go with the medicine.

  Funny, how the idea that her heart still remained safely in her possession didn’t seem all that sweet.

  When Mia knocked, Claire Blackthorne opened the door to the penthouse. The older woman looked chic as always in brown boots, oatmeal-colored slacks, and a matching sweater with a beautiful pattern in greens and blues embroidered in wool on the caps of the shoulders that ran down the sleeves. Mia took a moment to admire the design, knowing from her earlier conversations with the other woman that she’d likely done the handwork herself.

  “It’s good to see you, Claire,” she said, smiling.

  Her hug was as warm as her answering smile. “Thank you so much for coming up this morning, Mia. I hope you’re hungry.”

  Stepping inside, she glanced around, not seeing any sign of Trey. Her belly dipped. Had he returned home to Boston without a goodbye? She’d avoided him the day before, despite deeming him a distraction and nothing more, informing him via text she planned to spend the day sketching in the Louvre.

  It had seemed smarter to avoid any more magical Paris moments—the place was a notorious romantic destination for a reason and she’d needed the day and the distance from him.

  But she’d never considered he might have taken the opportunity to leave her altogether.

  Not leave her, she reminded herself. But… “Trey?” she heard herself ask.

  “In his room, sleeping or working or…” Claire waved a hand. “…most likely avoiding me. I arrived late last night and he poked his head out but didn’t seem inclined to talk.”

  “Oh,” Mia said, trying to ignore the warm rush of gladness. “How was your trip to Belgium?”

  “It was a smaller group of students this time and even the tourists have dwindled.” She led the way into the kitchen and poured Mia a mug of coffee, somehow remembering she liked it with a dollop of cream. “It gave me time to think.”

  Over the rim of her cup, she sent the older woman an assessing glance. Though beautiful as ever, there was a new…determination about her.

  “Did you make some decisions about your future?” Though they hadn’t spoken in detail about why she’d left Maine, between the few comments Claire had made and what Trey shared, Mia knew the older woman had come to a personal crossroads before escaping to Paris. “Are you heading home?”

  “I thought I’d address a few things in Paris before making that decision.” Claire bustled to the refrigerator, a huge, stainless steel counter-depth appliance. She began removing items. “Including checking in with you, Mia. You started working on Nicolette’s list, and that’s wonderful, but I’m sure it’s brought you some bad moments. How are you feeling?”

  Mia found she couldn’t speak around the sudden lump in her throat.

  As if sensing her disquiet, Claire glanced over her shoulder, and her expression softened. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said, shutting the refrigerator door. “You’re not okay, are you?”

  In a rush, she crossed the kitchen floor to take Mia in her arms. There was nothing to it but to burrow into the embrace and take the warm comfort offered as tears flowed down her face. “You’ll be all right,” the older woman said, stroking her hair. “Everything will be all right.”

  It took a few embarrassing moments for Mia to get control of herself. Then she backed away, wiping her face with her hands. “I’m sorry,” she said, sniffling. “I don’t know what’s got into me.”

  Claire took her hand. “What’s got into you are normal human emotions. Grief and stress. You’ve been under a lot of pressure.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Mia countered with a watery laugh. “I didn’t do anything for the first month except drink coffee at the corner café, talk to you, and pretend I didn’t have a promise to fulfill.”

  “But you’re fulfilling it now, aren’t you? It just took time to prepare yourself.”

  And it took a man. Specifically Trey, who’d traveled beside her, lending a hand, a laugh, and even a bribe when necessary.

  “Be kind to yourself, Mia,” Claire advised. “If I had daughters, I’d have told them that every day as they grew up. We women judge ourselves much harsher than we’d ever judge anyone else.”

  “If you had daughters, they’d be so lucky,” Mia said, blinking to suppress more tears.

  “Oh,” Claire squeezed her hand and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “You’re sweet.”

  “No,” Mia said. “I have a parent who has only bitterness to offer, and no wisdom whatsoever. When I told my mom why I was traveling to Paris, she didn’t understan
d why I’d bother. She said Nic was dead and gone.”

  Claire winced. “But not to you. Never to you, not really. Though she’ll always be in your heart, you need a starting point for your goodbye. That’s here. With the list.”

  “See?” Mia tried smiling. “Wise.”

  The older woman waved her hand again, a self-deprecating gesture this time, and moved back to the countertop between the refrigerator and the stainless-hooded range. “Well, let’s hope after sixty years I’ve learned a few things…and I’m about to demonstrate a lesson I’ve known for about thirty of them.”

  Bemused, Mia watched the older woman draw a cast-iron skillet from one cupboard and then a waffle iron from another. Though she offered to help, Claire said company was the only aid she needed as she went about cooking a very American breakfast—scrambled eggs, bacon, and waffles.

  “Maine maple syrup,” she said, withdrawing a bottle from the pantry. “My coup de grace.” With a flourish, she uncapped the small bottle, then wafted it around the room as if perfuming the air.

  “What’s this?” Mia asked, laughing.

  Claire’s eyes crinkled with glee and she flashed her a conspiratorial smile. “Wait for it,” she said, placing the syrup on the table set for three and then removing the platters of food that she’d slid into the kitchen’s warming drawer. “Sixty seconds, tops.”

  Fifty-five later, Trey Blackthorne stalked into the room.

  Mia pressed her lips together to prevent her laugh. He looked grumpy and gorgeous, his hair rumpled and his T-shirt and jeans wrinkled. His feet were covered in wool socks and he slammed his arms over his wide chest, glaring at the table laden with temptation.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  “Breakfast,” Claire said without a twitch. “But if you’re not hungry…”

  Muttering something, he was already pulling out two chairs, then looked between the women. “Aren’t the pair of you going to sit down?”

  They both immediately took their places and he followed suit, pausing only to pour himself some coffee and topping off their mugs.

  “Thank you, honey,” Claire said. As he returned the carafe to the counter, she whispered to Mia. “His favorite foods. When his lacrosse team lost a game or there was a minus next to his A on a test, a meal like this would lure him from his room and improve his mood.”