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"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"Because I thought if you knew the whole truth, you'd stay out of obligation. And I couldn't do that to you."

Her chin lifts.

"You idiot."

"Probably."

"No," she says, voice shaking. "Definitely."

And then she kisses me with no warning or hesitation. Just her mouth on mine. And I stop thinking.

I kiss her back. My hands find her waist. Hers fist in my wet shoulders. And something about the way she holds on — tight, like she's afraid I'll disappear again — cracks the last of it open.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.

She rests her forehead against mine.

"I needed to know," she whispers.

"I just told you."

"I know." Her mouth trembles. "But I think I knew before you said it. When you walked into the gallery looking like you hadn't slept in a week."

I pull back enough to look at her.

"And you love me?"

She gives a shaky little laugh.

"That's what the gallery showing was for."

I blink.

"Falling in Love in Cannes," she says. "What exactly did you think it was about?"

The answer is too humiliating to say out loud.

Her expression softens when she sees it on my face.

"That was about me?" I ask.

"Yes."

Something in my chest actually hurts.

"How did you know I'd show up?"

Her hand slides up to my jaw. "Because you always do," she says. "Even when you're terrible at explaining why."

Then she pulls back just enough to say, "There's something else."

The shift in her face makes my whole body tense.

"What."

She takes a breath, then another as if trying to pick the right moment to tell me.