Page 67 of Unleashed By Eden

I finish running a brush through my hair, fix my nose stud, and stalk out of the bathroom. Whoever is hammering on my door at 7 a.m. on the first day of our break in Paris better be dying.

Six cities, constantly on the go, everyone pissing in each other’s pockets. We need a few days apart before someone gets murdered with a drumstick.

Bang. Bang-bang-bang-bang.

“Fuck, I’m coming!”

I yank the door open, ready to verbally eviscerate whoever’s on the other side.

Then my brain short-circuits.

It’s Carter.

But it’s . . . not.

He’s propped in the doorway with one arm braced on the frame, one ankle crossed over the other, hand on his hip. He’s in a matching tracksuit so offensively dorky it has to be deliberate, a black fanny pack strapped to his waist, dark sunglasses, and a Knicks cap pulled low. And I don’t know what the hell to call it, but black strands of hair are sticking out from under the cap.

“Oh my fucking God.” I burst out laughing. “Are you wearing a mullet wig?”

His grin is breathtaking despite the tragic getup. Which just goes to show, this man could wear a literal garbage bag and still ooze sex.

“You likey?” He does a full slow turn, palms out, giving me a complete three-sixty view of his disguise.

I bite my lip to hold in another laugh. It fails. “Call me Gazza,” he announces proudly.

He’s gone full Aussie bogan in Paris, and I’m helpless. I double over, laughing.

“What are you doing?” I manage, shaking my head.

“Since it’s our day off”—he points at me, then hooks his thumb toward his chest—“your ass is mine. Big day. Let’s move.”

“Wait, where are we going?”

He flicks his mullet over his shoulder. “I have the whole day planned out. It’s our first official date. And what better place to do it than Paris.”

Oh. This man.

I spin, grab my purse, my half-charged phone, and on impulse snatch up my camera. Then I step out and pull the door shut.

We slip out of the hotel before anyone can latch on, question us, or shove a phone in his face. He tugs the cap lower, sunglasses shielding his eyes, and I fall into step beside him without a word. There is no universe in which I’d say no to this man. Not when everything between us is finally starting to feel . . . possible.

He slides his hand into mine as we hit the street. And I realize, this is the first time we’ve been alone together outside a hotel room. There’s no security shadowing us, or Chris hustling him to the next obligation, or Dave and Mika following with cameras while Megan hovers.

Just me and him, alone at last.

Paris opens around us, mild air carrying coffee, pastry, and Metro dust. I tilt my face into the sun and breathe it in, a smile on my lips. I’ve spent a long time being angry—at him, myself, and the world—that I don’t quite know what to do with the flicker of calm working its way through my body.

He takes me to a tiny café on Rue Cler, one of those market streets where old women buy flowers and cheese, and tourists wander with their cameras strapped around their necks. We sit outside under a yellow awning. In this light, in that disguise, he almost passes for a random thirty-something guy in a ridiculous tracksuit. Untouched by fame.

Almost.

I lift my camera and take a shot. His head is bent over his coffee, glasses hiding his eyes, mullet tangled in the back. My chest expands like a balloon.

Back in Stockholm I gave him shit for choosing this life. Told him it came with a price. However, seeing the price, up close, in real time—seeing how much effort it takes for him to walk a street unbothered—is another thing entirely. It’s confronting in a way I never expected.

We share an almond croissant the size of my head. He keeps stealing bites from my side of the plate like a seagull, and I pretend to grouch about it but don’t pull it away. Watching him lick powdered sugar off his thumb is strangely intimate. It’s mundane and completely normal and utterly irresistible.

After breakfast we wander around, down narrow streets lined with bookshops and cafés and stores filled with things I can’t afford. His hand never leaves mine. Every casual touch pulls me a little deeper into whatever we are now. The way he looks at me like I’m something precious he never expected to have renders me speechless.