Page 20 of Bared

But with every step he took around the city, wandering streets and alleys even as the afternoon grew into evening, he started feeling it as the latter.

Because he still didn’t know what to do about this damn offer.

About everything Ozias had said when bringing it to him.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Oz.

If that meeting had been with anyone else, he’d have already told them to go pound sand. Ironically, no one would’ve understood that answer more than Oz. Well, usually. The Aussie, normally as laid-back as a tequila sunrise and sunset, had been uniquely aggressive out on that plaza, all but demanding Brick’s answer on the spot. Relatable, considering his blatant adoration for Fox. And seeing the Arcadian’s clear concern about finding his princess before the Pura dickwads…

His princess.

No. Not really a princess anymore.

So what was she?

Just Jayd now. Jayd Cimarron, a missing Arcadian beauty.

A woman who’d had the guts to sneak away from her home, her family, her comfort—all in the name of seeking her truth. Perhaps, for the first time in her existence, living her truth.

Which meant she was proud, determined, and brave.

Which also meant she was intractable, impetuous, and not open to taking instruction. Possibly—probably—from the very team who’d come to rescue her.

So why hadn’t he already turned this gig down? Why was he still out here as the streetlamps turned on, instead of back at the Ritz and ordering a steak dinner on Reece Richards’s dime?

The questions pounded his brain as he stopped on a tree-shrouded corner in the heart of—surprise, dumbshit—Montmartre.

What the living fuck?

But no way was he adding that one to the mental quandary file. He wasn’t ready to tick it off as answered either.

He needed some clarity. Which was exactly what he thought was happening for the last few hours, only to realize his wandering had treated his brain like a gardener’s air blower. The clutter wasn’t gone, just pushed to different places.

Another magic pill wouldn’t help either. He was mired in confusion, not panic. Besides, one visit to the figurative pharmacy was enough for the day. For any day.

As he peered around, shops and landmarks started looking familiar. They, more than anything else, disclosed how close he was to the Très Particulier. The bar was aptly named considering their nearly secret location. He only knew about it because he’d been here just last week, with Colton and Foley, after the op that had gone horrifically sideways. They’d needed to drink themselves into oblivion, though not in the full public eye. Colton, with his semisuperstar connections, had suggested the Particulier.

Brick couldn’t think of a better place to hide out. Hopefully, from his own chaotic mind. Thank God for friends who knew about bars as secret as Xanadu but as lush as Honolulu.

After ringing at the Hôtel Particulier’s main gate and gaining entrance, he made his way directly to the bar. It was already fairly busy, though most places in Paris didn’t start really bumping until nine or ten p.m. Still, he was able to order a decent brand of whisky and then claim a red velvet chair at a small table near the wall, where he could park his head against the large painting of an exotic forest. Hopefully, the tropical bird residents in the picture would fly away with some of his mind’s heavy conflict.

Which continued to make no sense.

At all.

He didn’t need to accept the damn job. Did he even want to? And if he didn’t, why hadn’t he written off Oz’s offer already?

Oz, who’d understand more than anyone if he never showed up. Who already knew that Brick needed the sanity in his head more than the chalet in Whistler. Who, very obviously, comprehended the value of well-kept secrets…

Just as Brick was about to break down that thought—more specifically, how Ozias had kept his relationship preferences so thoroughly cloaked from him—a woman walked by, at once zapping all his senses like an electromagnetic pulse.

“Christ,” he croaked. “What the living f…”

He stopped as soon as she did. She pivoted quickly, as if peering out across the terrace for someone, and the EMP hit him again. Dismantling his cognition. Erasing his equilibrium. Funneling his focus.

Her profile…