Page 29 of City of Love

Lydia stills, tilting her head to the side. “You just—” She hesitates, then starts again. “You just touched me.”

“Huh,” I say, frowning curiously at my hand as a surge of anxiety rises inside. I do my best not to let her see it. “I did. I’m sorry.”

She shrugs, the move casual, nonchalant. “I don’t mind.”

She sounds so genuine that my anxiety ebbs. I just don’t want her to feel uncomfortable—or feel like I’m coming on to her.

“I just didn’t peg you for a touchy-feely type,” she adds.

“I’m not,” I admit, thinking of trying to comfort her last night.

“You kind of are,” she says, her lips quirking.

“I’musuallynot,” I amend. I’m not sure why things would be different with her, except that maybe we simply have the ease of being close without being romantic. I care about her—though I’ll never tell Luc that, because he would be insufferable in every way—but I don’t need to impress her. And this morning is much more comfortable than last night was, when she was still upset.

“Well,” she says, clapping her hands once and standing up straighter. “Are you ready to show me Paris?”

“I’m ready,” I say.

She smiles—a huge, authentic smile—and the day gets a little brighter.

Chapter 10

Lydia

Noel’s flat is just like I remember. Teeny tiny, sparse, and only functionally decorated.

“Hey,” I say as we step inside. “Remember that time you completely invaded my privacy and dumped out everything in my purse? Do you remember that?”

I grin as Noel rolls his eyes.

“I wanted to make sure you didn’t steal anything,” he says distractedly as he pulls a set of keys out of his pocket.

I gesture at the room around us, laughing. “What was I going to steal? No offense,” I add, lest he think I’m insulting his space.

“None taken,” he says with a wry smile. He pauses, glancing at me over his shoulder before looking away again. “That’s how I knew for certain who you were,” he says. “The stress ball and Rosie the Riveter.” He kneels in front of the small table next to the futon. It probably functions as both an end table and a bedside table.

“That makes sense,” I say. Then, tilting my head, I add, “Why didn’t you just tell me who you were then?”

Once again he looks over his shoulder at me. “I was just pretty taken aback,” he admits. “And I hadn’t quite figured out how to tell you I was a guy yet. You were already having a rough time, and I didn’t want to make it worse. Plus I had some stuff I still had to do before I came to see you.”

Nonprofit stuff, probably. But I don’t ask. I just nod, watching him as he goes back to work unlocking the small cabinet-like door on the little table. Then I say, “What are you doing?”

The grin he shoots me over his shoulder is almost mischievous, and it lights up his eyes in a way I haven’t seen yet. “None of your business,” he says.

I blink in surprise before giving a little huff of laughter. He goes back to his task—none of which I can see, because he’s in the way—and I can’t help but think he wouldn’t be acting this sketchy if he really did just run a nonprofit organization. Still, I don’t push him, and thirty seconds later I hear what sounds like a metal door closing. A safe, if I had to guess.

He stands, tucking something into his pocket.

“Let me guess,” I say, nodding my head at the pocket. “Something to do with your nonprofit endeavors? Yourillegalnonprofit endeavors?”

“It’s possible,” he concedes.

“But you’re not going to tell me about it.”

“I do seem to remember an agreement that involved you not asking questions,” he says, and though his expression is serious, his eyes are amused.

“Maybe you could use my help,” I say. “To make your illegality…more legal,” I finish awkwardly.

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