“Well, uh…”
“How many hickeys have you had?” he asked.
Her face burned. “If you must know, before now, at a seventh-grade sleepover we gave them to ourselves on the insides of our arms.”
“Really?” he laughed. “Girls are weird. So what’s your opinion? Horrible as you said? Juvenile?” His voice lowered. “Or like what I was thinking, seeing my mark on you, sexy as hell?”
The door swinging open prevented her from answering, though her face remained hot and her knees embarrassingly weak as she and Trey followed Claire into the kitchen where again the table was set for three, including a pitcher of orange juice, coffee for all, and platters of fragrant food.
“I hope you’re hungry,” the older woman said. “I made chive-and-cheese scrambled eggs and I went out for chocolate croissants and those tiny tarts you love Mia.”
They dug in, and when the second cups of coffee were poured, Claire said, “There’s some news.”
“Oh?” Trey asked, his alert gaze going to his mother.
“The Caines will be back in Paris in two days. They said we’re welcome to stay, Trey, that there’s plenty of room, but I’m thinking it’s a good time to change things up.”
He straightened in his chair. “Are you going back to the States?” he asked.
“I’m not quite sure.” She hesitated. “How about you?”
“I’m not quite sure either.” He glanced over at Mia, but she instantly pretended an interest in forking up more eggs. “Maybe I’ll do some additional traveling.”
The two talked idly of other things while Mia kept her attention on her plate. She knew Trey was still thinking about that Europe fling, that he thought he might be traveling with her, but she had her own itinerary to pursue and her own heart to keep as safe as possible—though she knew it was like closing the barn door after the horse ran off.
Tonight she’d tell him goodbye.
Claire, on the other hand…she didn’t need to have that conversation with the older woman. Sooner rather than later, it looked as if she’d be back in the Boston area and Mia knew she put in a lot of volunteer hours at the museum. They’d run into each other there and catch up on their lives.
Claire would tell her all about the news of the seven Blackthorne boys she’d raised. There’d be a nugget or two regarding Trey, certainly. It would have to be enough.
“Mia?”
She blinked, realizing her name must have been called by his mom a couple of times. Shifting in her seat, she addressed the older woman. “Yes?”
“How are you coming on Nicolette’s list?”
“Just two more items,” she said. “It won’t take long to finish.”
Under the table, Trey’s hand found hers and squeezed. “Today. We’ll take care of them together today.”
She probably should have declined his escort. But she’d become accustomed to his company—just another reason to hurry up the goodbye—and so later in the morning the two of them rode on the Métro shoulder-to-shoulder, getting off at the nearest stop to the Parc des Buttes Chaumont, which according to her tourist guide was the fifth largest park in the city and opened during the reign of Napoleon III.
The skies had turned sunny and the air warm again, as if Mother Nature wanted to remind Paris about summer, and people were walking and running on the winding paths and sunbathing on the lush grass. They’d picked up a picnic lunch that Trey carried and Mia withdrew a blanket and the handmade box out of her backpack.
He had bought a bottle of cold white wine too, and on a whim Mia poured a small portion in a third plastic glass and set it beside the ashes. She appreciated that Trey didn’t comment on the whimsy, but only asked, “How did you and Nic meet?”
She smiled a little. “Kindergarten. Her mom has a picture of us standing in line waiting to walk into the classroom. Anne is like that. She’d stay to make sure the first day of school started all right. For the next twelve years, she took a similar photo of us.”
“You…what? Just clicked over thick white paste and round-tipped scissors?”
Mia laughed. “Pretty much. We were inseparable from the beginning. Nic was taller than me though, so outside of school people often mistook us for sisters. I loved that. I used to practice writing my name using hers—Mia Arsenau instead of Mia Thomas.”
He was silent a moment. “So you lost more than a friend, you lost a sister and a family.”
“Oh, no,” Mia said, shaking her head. “The Arsenaus are still my family. We’re bound by the heart, forever. Though it’s not shared blood, love for each other runs through our veins.”
Trey stilled for a moment, then threw back the rest of his wine. After that, he didn’t seem inclined to talk. Few words were exchanged as they finished their meal of cheese, fruit, and thin slices of red-skinned apple.
Then they packed everything away and explored. There was a lake, grotto, and waterfalls, as well as a picturesque temple copied after a famous one from ancient Rome. One of the bridges had been designed by Gustave Eiffel.
“Why’s this place on the list?” Trey asked, as they rested on a bench, the sunshine washing over them, making her feel like a lazy cat.
Mia shrugged. “I don’t know the why of most of them. Just something caught her fancy, I suppose. Of the pair of us, she had the imagination.”
Trey glanced over. “She’d be glad you followed through.”
“That’s the plan.” She kept her voice light.
He frowned at her. “What’s bothering you?”
How did he know her so well in so short a time? “It’s just…I almost didn’t follow through. I had a difficult time getting started.”
“Do you know why?”
She shrugged. “I set aside the list and then it just got harder and harder to pick up again. Until…”
He nodded, understanding what she didn’t say. “I’m glad I was there for you,” he said.
Mia’s heart gave a warning ka-thump, like a car going over a speed bump. Relying on a man was a move she’d deemed unwise beginning at nine years old.
She stood up, lethargy evaporated. “Let’s head back. Places to go, things to do.” Goodbyes to be said.
But before that, one more line item on Nic’s list to cross off.
They returned to the Seine in that golden hour just before dusk. The section of the river that ran through the central tourist part of the city was crowded as always, but as they approached, the sound of music became unmistakable. At her side, Trey slanted her a glance. “You wanted to keep this particular entry on the list a secret because…”
She hesitated. “How do you feel about dancing?”
He grinned. “Baby. I’m Claire Blackthorne’s son. Though some of the other six were given a pass after my experience, at twelve she made me take lessons that included etiquette instruction. It’s why I can reasonably promise I won’t step on your toes.”
“Great.” Mia grimaced. “Though I’m not sure I can promise the same.”
He laughed and then they made it to the riverbank, where an expanse of cobbled pavement opened in front of them. A small band played salsa music and a crowd of couples danced to the beat with varying degrees of expertise.
“Is this it?” he asked.
“No,” Mia said quickly. “No way. I can’t move my hips like that.”
“I bet I could make you,” Trey whispered hotly in her ear.
She ignored the chills racing down her neck and towed him away, to where another kind of music played—1950s stuff—inspiring these couples to gyrate and grind dirty dancing-style.
“I like,” Trey said, stopping to pull her in front of him. He crossed his arms over her waist plastering their bodies close.
I like too, Nic said.
Mia practically snorted. “Keep walking,” she told Trey. “We’re going for tamer yet.”
A hundred yards away was yet another group. A portable sound system sat on a bench, the volume set at high, the strains of “Moon River” d
irecting the movements of the dancers. Mia breathed a sigh of relief and turned to Trey. “Will you dance, sir?”
He smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.” Then he took her hand and led her to the periphery of the “dance floor” making a place for them among the other participants—who were young, old, and everything in between.
Her breath hitched as he pulled her toward him, his arms strong and sure. “Relax,” he said. “I’ve got you.”
She almost responded she was afraid of that, but instead let him begin leading her confidently about. “Wow.” A smile broke over her face as they neatly sidestepped a pair of little girls with more enthusiasm than expertise. “You do know what you’re doing,” she said, smiling.
“Told you.” He glanced down at her, smiling back. Then it died, and his eyebrows drew together.
“What?” she said, releasing his shoulder, so she could brush at her face with her fingertips. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“No reason,” he said quickly, then looked away. But one of his hands cupped the back of her head and drew her closer, so that her nose was pressed against his neck.
Instead of resisting, she found herself breathing him in, taking in the scent of Trey, his warm skin delicious. Without thinking, her tongue slipped out and she tasted him.
A groan rumbled in his chest.
“Sorry,” she whispered. Sorry, not sorry, she thought as she savored the flavor of him.
The music continued to play, seguing into another slow tune. She recognized Bing Crosby’s voice. The words of the song. “I’ll Be Seeing You.”
Her heart stopped. The world stopped. They were still dancing but she did it without air and without awareness of anyone else but her Paris lover, of Trey, who held her close enough that she could feel every hard inch of muscle. She pressed close and let him turn her, shutting her eyes and reveling in this moment with him.
A little panic rose in her throat at the very rightness of it, but then she remembered. This was merely being human and she’d decided to be happy about having fallen in love. She could be happy for a little longer, until it was time to walk away. Perhaps the inevitable fallout wouldn’t be too bad.
The fall-in had been so easy, after all.
Oh, girlfriend…
Mia closed her ears to Nic’s sympathy and just enjoyed the dance, the last ride, letting Trey guide her until the final notes of the song played out in the descending dusk. As one, they turned and left the area, strolling away from the Seine arm-in-arm. She didn’t speak, unwilling to burst this romantic, bewitching bubble.
Trey remained silent too, all the way back to the apartment building, where he followed her down the steps to her basement apartment. Outside her door, he halted. “Mia.”
She turned to face him, her key in hand, her back against the wooden surface. “Yes?”
He stared at her, shook his head as if confounded, then stared at her some more. “I…”
You better give him a candy to suck on, Nic advised. Or slap his face. The man’s in some sort of state.
A man like Trey Blackthorne didn’t get into any kind of “state.”
But the more he just stood there, wordlessly gazing on Mia, the more unsure she began to feel. “Are you all right?”
“Mia,” he began hoarsely, then looked away. “Mia,” he started again.
She swallowed, her pulse starting to trip and thrum, trip and thrum, uneven and anxious. “Yes?”
“These days we’ve spent together in Paris,” he said, and shoved his hands in his pockets. “That song…”
That song, “I’ll Be Seeing You,” which spoke of picturing the beloved everywhere—of never being able to escape the memory of him. Her stomach roiled. “I’ve got to go,” she whispered.
He blinked. His hand came out as if to touch her, then returned to his pocket. “Right now?”
“I’ve got to pack.” She gripped the apartment key tighter, until it bit into her palm. “I’m traveling by train tomorrow morning. On the high-speed train to Nice.”
“Nice?” he said slowly. “Nice, France?”
She nodded. “One final request of Nicolette’s. She always wanted her ashes scattered there, into the Mediterranean Sea.”
“You left that out, when we talked about her requests.”
“Well…it’s the last thing, the most important thing.” One of her shoulders lifted.
“You left out the most important thing.”
“Right.” She tried for a brisk tone and ignored the implication that she’d held back something from him. Of course, she had! Her heart had been lost without her permission but she was keeping a tight hold of her autonomy.
Independence.
Loneliness.
Whatever. It was time to move on and put thoughts of Trey Blackthorne away. Later, a long time from now, she could take them out and look back upon them with…with fondness or something.
Mia cleared her throat. “But hey, thanks for everything. I…I couldn’t have escaped Paris jail without you.”
He didn’t laugh or even smile. “This is it.”
The lump in her throat grew and the ache in her chest made it impossible to breathe and everything hurt, from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet. She wished she could believe she was coming down with the flu Trey had suffered from when he arrived in Paris. But it was her heart that was sick.
“I’ve got to go. There’s packing to do, not to mention I need to wash my hair.” An inane excuse, but what did it matter? She’d never see him again.
“So this is your strategy,” he murmured, crossing his arms over his chest. “Shutting me out because of a need to shampoo?”
“It’s practical,” she said, remembering the words he’d used on their first morning after. “A polite charade for both parties.” Her cheeky grin was so wide she thought her face might split in half.
“Mia…”
“In other words, an easy goodbye, Trey. Just the way we like it.”
Chapter Twelve
Trey stalked the city in the early hours of the morning—he’d been at it all night. There were other men about, walking alone, and he imagined each one was grappling with the knowledge they’d fallen in love. Why else wouldn’t they be comfortably in a bed, where he should be?
If only he hadn’t made one simple error.
That is, falling in love with Mia Thomas, urban mermaid, and realizing that fact to the strains of “I’ll Be Seeing You” and only an hour before she gave him the casual brushoff.
I need to wash my hair.
Wash her hair!
An easy goodbye, Trey. Just the way we like it.
His fingers, shoved deep in his jacket pockets, curled into fists and the gentleman coming his way, in a trench coat and carrying a—self-defense?—baguette, gave him a wide berth. Yeah, do that, he thought darkly, because he was looking for any excuse to throw a punch. Even the nearby lamppost looked promising.
Trey Blackthorne, losing his legendary cool.
Another knock to his previously rock-solid identity. Not only didn’t he legitimately own the name he’d always considered his, he didn’t possess one of the traits he’d always relied upon most.
That of never letting his emotions get the better of him.
Back at le mur des je t’aime, he’d told Mia he felt sorry for them because they’d avoided love. Well, that had merely been a frivolous passing thought. Because the truth was, from the time he’d been nineteen or so, he’d been pretty damn smug about never getting bogged down in the sticky tangle of a long-term relationship.
With six younger relatives to watch tripping over themselves in the pursuit of such over the years—or in the convalescence over such—he’d been happy with his string-free romantic existence. Okay, string-free sex.
Engaging in pleasure without obligations meant you didn’t have the responsibility to be there for someone else, to do your part to make them happy. Trey Blackthorne, family fixer, had enough responsibilities, thank you
.
That had been fine for thirty-four years.
But then Mia came into his life.
Bright butterfly Mia, strong and yet vulnerable. Mia, who intended to travel to Nice alone, where she’d toss those ashes she’d been holding so close. Of course parting with them would be like peeling off her own skin. He hated for her that she was planning to do that by herself.
Up ahead he saw one of the Seine shuttle boats getting readied for the day. A crew member mopped the decks and he heard the deep-throated thrum of engines coming to life. He jogged toward the vessel and when the guy with the mop told him in French—and then English, when he admitted he didn’t speak the native language—it was too early to board, Trey pulled out some Euros and after a brief consultation with the captain, he was welcomed to climb on.
He liked the water and its calming influence.
Here he’d be able to think, or better yet, forget.
Taking a seat on one of the long middle benches, he spread his arms across the top, briefly noting the piled tarp in the opposite corner.
But as the boat picked up speed, the mass of waterproof canvas moved. Trey stared as a kid emerged from beneath the folds.
“Hey,” the young guy said, shaking his head to settle his messy hair out of his eyes. A backpack with a patch reading University of Iowa emerged next.
Trey’s brows rose. “You’re a stowaway?”
The kid ginned. “I had twelve hours to see Paris before meeting my tour,” he said. “I didn’t want to spend it sleeping in a hotel and I don’t have the scratch for it anyway so I wandered the streets most of the night and then managed a couple of hours of rest on the boat.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t get caught sneaking on.” He thought of his own brush with the “law” in the cemetery and almost smiled.
“I did. But the security dude let me stay in exchange for my college sweatshirt and ball cap.”
“Resourceful,” Trey murmured. “What do you think of Paris?”
“Love the pancake things.”
“Yeah. They’re good.” The wind picked up and Trey lifted his face into the cool rush of air. “Where’s your tour taking you?”
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