“Iamup.” I sat up straighter, even though he wasn’t looking at me. “I’m literally having a conversation with you.”
He craned his neck around only far enough to raise his eyebrow at me. “Up means out of bed.”
“That’s blackmail.” I folded my arms theatrically, suddenly grateful I had a sports bra on, unlike the night I’d found him in Izzy’s kitchen. Although I wouldn’t have complained if he was half-naked again. After this trip was over, I’d have fantasy material for years.
“Possibly.” He turned around, leaving me to glower at his broad shoulders.
“What are you working on?”
“Email.”
I took another sip of my coffee. The more awake I got, the worse it tasted. “Anything interesting?”
“Tristan got a photo of the second man from the security cameras at Isabella’s gallery. The image is shit, but Arthur sent it to Morganna. If anyone can sharpen it up and identify him, it’s her.”
“Morganna? She’s the CIA targeter, right?”
“Former.”
“You’re all former somethings, aren’t you?”
He twisted in his seat. “You’re?”
“The Round Table guys.” I lifted my mug. “And gal? Gals?”
Garrett just sat there in his little chair with his little frown, all broody, as though he didn’t know what to do with me. Was I being too sassy this morning, like the woman in my Marine-protects-the-witness novel? Or was he staring because my hair was probably an absolute mess, and I undoubtedly had pillow imprints on my face.
“I should have a shower.”
“I’ll go downstairs.” He stood, but didn’t leave. “They may still have hot coffee.”
Sliding out from under the covers, I considered pushing my luck further. He wasn’t as intense as he’d been yesterday, despitethe whole fleeing-the-country thing. And we had almost sort of bonded on the train before I fell asleep last night. So maybe? “Do you think we could walk around a little before we go?”
He leaned down to check his laptop again. “No.”
“Right.” I made my way around the narrow bed and placed my mug on the desk next to him. “Of course. Danger and all that. I mean, I know we’re not here for sightseeing, but I’m actuallyinParis, and yesterday I wasinLondon and didn’t get to see any of it, and?—”
“Grace.”
“I just want to walk down the sidewalk, so I can hear people speaking French. We could find hot coffee and fresh pastries.” I wandered toward the window and pushed aside the curtain to look outside. Vehicles motored along the road. A woman carried a basket of flowers. A couple rode by on bikes. “It’s right there. All of it. Right outside.”
Silence.
“I know it’s not safe. I know after the whole Gherkin debacle I have no right to ask for anything. But we’d be together the whole time, and it’s the middle of the day, and I wouldn’t wander off, I swear.” I turned back to face him. “I want to see Paris, Garrett. Anything. Even just a few blocks.”
He straightened, making the room seem smaller than it already was. He joined me at the window, pulling the curtain back into place, and holding it aside only far enough to inspect the street below. “If I say yes, will you listen the second I tell you it’s time to get back inside?”
I grabbed his forearm—his way too thick and corded forearm—Grace, stop it.I let go of him and tried not to bounce in place. “Seriously?”
He huffed at me. “Get cleaned up. We’ll go when you’re ready.”
I’d convinced him. He’d said no, and I’d actually changed his mind. Something about that felt bigger than a walk.
I hurried through the shower and drying-off process, so twenty minutes later, we stepped out onto a Paris street. And it wasnothinglike the postcards. No Eiffel Tower. No accordion music drifting from café doorways. Just narrow streets lined with cream-colored apartment buildings, iron balconies with trailing ivy, and an elderly woman walking a dog so small it looked like a mop with legs.
It was ordinary. Lived-in.
And I loved it.
