Page 36 of City of Love

I sit on my bed and let my head drop into my hands, and I admit to myself what I will never tell Luc: he was right. I am attached to Lydia. I’mveryattached to her. She’s under my skin and probably has been for a long time. And it seems to be worse now that she’s actually here, looking and acting not like the sixteen-year-old I was writing to three years ago but like the woman that she is.

Those feelings are natural, of course. They’re not romantic; they’re simply born of being in constant communication for the last three years. In fact, it would probably be stranger if Ididn’tfeel close to her. But it’s still inconvenient. Relationships are messy, friendships included.

Although I do appreciate how easy it is to be with Lydia. I guess I could see a relationship with her—afriendship, I mean—being low-drama.

I shake my head, running one hand through my hair. I’m sinking too far into my thoughts. Standing up and tucking my phone back in my pocket, I only take one step toward the door before it opens and Lydia pokes her head in.

“Psst,” she says, looking at me.

I raise one brow. “Miss me already?”

She rolls her eyes, stepping into my room and closing the door behind her. “No,” she says quietly. “Your mother is perfectly lovely. She’s telling me baby stories about you. I just—”

My eyes narrow as she breaks off, looking uncertain all of a sudden.

“You just…what?” We’ll address the baby stories later.

She awkwardly thrusts her phone at me. “Marcus,” she says, her voice tense.

I take the phone, looking at the screen. Then I take a couple deep,deepbreaths while contemplating all the places I could hide a dead body.

The text she’s shown me is a photo of a shirtless guy—Marcus—who’s flexing his puny muscles and making a kissy face in the mirror. The caption reads,Get used to this view, sexy. You and I are going to have a little chat tomorrow.

I take one last deep breath, willing myself calm, before glancing back to Lydia. But when I see her, arms wrapped around herself, face flickering with fear and anger, another wave of hot fury rushes over me.

“What if he doesn’t stop?” she whispers, her eyes blazing beautifully. “What if he never stops?”

I don’t think; I just act. I cover the distance between us in one short stride and pull her close, wrapping my arms around her. Her body sags into mine, as though the burden she’s carrying is too heavy for her alone.

Despite what she thinks, I’m truly not the touchy-feely kind. But friends hug each other, and I would be an abysmal friend if I didn’t comfort her when she’s so clearly upset. So I just tighten my arms as we stand there, playing absently with her hair as I tuck her head beneath my chin.

“He’ll stop,” I say, and I can hear the anger in my voice. I take another deep breath before reluctantly stepping back. “We’ll figure something out,chérie.” I run my hands over her mussed hair, smoothing it down.

“What are you doing?” she says.

I feel the corners of my lips quirk. “Your hair is messy. You look like…” I trail off, deciding vagueness is probably best here. “Well, you look like you’ve been doing things you haven’t been doing.”

“Oh,” she says, and some of the tension eases from her shoulders as she gives a little laugh, though I can’t help but notice that she also blushes. “Thanks. That would be awkward for your mom.”

“There. Done,” I say, tucking her hair behind her ears. Then I nod at the door. “Let’s go beforeMamancomes looking for us.”

“Fine,” Lydia says, nodding. “But after lunch we’re making a plan of attack. Andyou”—she rounds on me suddenly, jabbing one finger into my chest, whichhurts—“you will not pull that overprotective man nonsense tomorrow. Look menacing, sure. Glare at him, sure. But don’t dangle him from the top of the Eiffel Tower or something when I’m not looking. I fight my own battles. Got it?” she says.

Something like a growl escapes me before I can stop it, and Lydia lifts one incredulous brow.

“Did you justgrowlat me?” she says, folding her arms.

“Sorry,” I say, rubbing absently at the spot on my chest where she jabbed her finger. “I just don’t like standing back and doing nothing.”

“You won’t be standing back and doing nothing,” she says, her voice calm and logical. “You will be lending moral support with your presence.”

“What if I dangle him just alittle?” I say.

“Noel,” she says, swatting me on the shoulder.

I laugh. “I’m kidding; I’m kidding. I know you have to do this.” Then, more seriously, I add, “I just don’t like it.”

“I know,” she says. “You’re territorial and overprotective. But it’ll be fine.” She gives me a couple pats on the shoulder before turning around and leaving the room.

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