“Of course you have a personal shopper in Paris.”
“Several, actually. For different occasions.”
I shake my head. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
“I rarely joke.”
“That’s concerning.”
“Is it?” He opens the car door. “I thought it was efficient.”
Same black town car, different driver than last time. This one is younger, sharper-eyed, with the same unsettling stillness Julian has. He doesn’t acknowledge me, just watches the street like he’s expecting trouble.
I slide into the back seat. He follows, maintaining a careful distance between us. It feels like the same distance he maintained last time—like he’s calculated exactly how much space is appropriate for a fake relationship that might be becoming something else.
“New driver?” I ask as I slide in.
“Rotation.” Julian settles beside me. “Marcus had other obligations tonight.”
The explanation is smooth. Too smooth. I file it away with everything else.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Somewhere quiet. We need to practice.”
“Practice what, exactly?”
He turns to look at me. The streetlights slide across his face as we pull away from the curb—shadows and angles, all that sharpness softened by the evening light.
“Being comfortable with each other,” he says. “Your family will notice if you flinch every time I touch you.”
“I don’t flinch.”
“You do.” His hand moves to my knee—light and casual, the way a boyfriend might touch his girlfriend in a car. “There. You just tensed.”
He’s right. I did.
“I’m not used to being touched,” I admit. “Not like this. Not casually.”
“What about Preston?”
“Preston touched me like he was checking a box. Affection as transaction.” I look down at his hand, still resting on my knee. His fingers are long and elegant. Cool, even through the silk. “You touch me like you’re paying attention.”
“I’m always paying attention to you.”
The words land heavier than they should.
“See, that’s the problem,” I say. “You say things like that, and I can’t tell if you mean them or if you’re just very good at your job.”
“Would it matter?”
“Yes. It would matter a lot.”
His hand moves—sliding up slightly, thumb brushing the inside of my knee. Not sexual. Just... present. Intentional.
“I mean to them,” he says. “Everything I say to you, I mean.”
“Even the mysterious parts?”
