Page 51 of City of Love

I can’t risk Lydia. Not her safety or her rose-colored glasses or her tender heart.

I wait beside the tomb of Charles Baudelaire, eyeing it with a sort of detached interest. He has a cenotaph in this same cemetery—an empty grave—but his actual body is here, where I stand, buried with his family.

How much a man must love his family to be buried with them—to tie his name to theirs even in death. Do I love anyone that much?

I twist one of my earrings absently—one of the delicate, feminine bows from Lydia. I hope she’ll be able to figure out that knife if she needs it. Though what I said was true—I would genuinely be surprised if something went down. I just need to be prepared. I open my bag and pull out the signature green Rolex box. This particular timepiece was just over ten thousand euros, and it effectively wiped out two thirds of the group’s funds. Yet another reason to close this operation down.

I’m only waiting a few minutes when I spot four shadowy figures moving toward us. I can’t make them out in the dark from this distance, but my guess is none of them are the actual leader of the Saints. He likely couldn’t be bothered to come himself, and I don’t necessarily blame him. The Saints have their hands in a variety of cookie jars, so to speak, and seeking reparations for a stolen watch, even a Rolex, probably isn’t high on his list of priorities.

Though it’s not about the watch, anyway; not really. It’s about boundaries.

I keep my eyes on the men that lumber toward me, but my mind is on Lydia. I can’t recall the last time I felt the kind of fear I experienced when I realized she had come here. It was the kind of fear that made me want to wrap her in my arms and take her away. The kind of fear that would normally worry me, because I try not to get close enough to people to fear for them like that, but I’m too focused on her safety for any other concerns.

Hot on the tail of that fear was a strange sort of jealousy that crept in as I watched Gabin ogle her and kiss her hand—his attempt to be charming. Normally his antics don’t bother me, but while Lydia’s in France, she’s my responsibility. I only have this one month with her—more like three weeks now—and I don’t particularly want Gabin swarming around. His lips, or any other part of him, should go nowhere near her.

Not that I have room to talk. A flash of heat rushes through me as I remember the feel of my hands in her hair, and I force myself to focus. The heightened tension of tonight has made me think about a lot of things I wouldn’t normally consider, like kissing a woman I don’t have romantic feelings for.

“Marchand,” the biggest of the four men says when they’ve reached the grave.

I give him a curt nod. “Comtois.” I know this man. He’s a thug, but though he gives off the appearance of someone who’s all brawn and no brain, that’s not true. He’s shrewd as well as built like a mountain.

This combined with the fact that we’re outnumbered by one man makes me even more keen to get this over with.

“My sincerest apologies for the misunderstanding,” I say smoothly in French. I pass him the box. “A slight upgrade to replace what was taken. Is this to your liking?”

Comtois takes the box and opens it, grunting before passing it to one of the men behind him. The man pulls out a flashlight and shines it on the watch, peering carefully at it for a solid minute—to make sure it’s not a fake, I assume. When the man looks to Comtois and nods, I have to hold in a sigh of relief. I just want to get out of here, to take Lydia back home and talk to her and make sure she’s okay.

Comtois takes one threatening step toward me, pulling my mind away from Lydia and fully to the situation at hand. The man has several inches on me, but I don’t retreat. I just look at him and wait.

“We prefer to keep the peace,” he finally says. “But we won’t be so forgiving next time.”

I nod, a strand of unease heading through me. “Understood.” I want to ask if our debt is forgiven, but I don’t.

He waves wordlessly for me to go, his hand a careless gesture of dismissal, and it doesn’t even bother me. I turn on my heel and slip between the mausoleums beside us, rounding the corner and searching for Lydia.

I find her huddled just where I left her, and I’m hit with a wave of relief so powerful I pull her into my arms before thinking better of it. I knew she would be here—where would she have gone?—but I’m glad all the same. I breathe her in, letting the sweet spiciness of cinnamon ground me.

“You have so much explaining to do,” she whispers shakily as her arms wrap around my waist.

“I know,” I say, my voice soft as I pull her impossibly closer. “We’ll talk when we get home, all right?”

I feel rather than see her nod, and her arms tighten slightly. I allow myself one minute to fully appreciate the things I shouldn’t—the softness of her body against mine, the seductive swirl of her cinnamon body wash, the warmth of her face pressed into my neck. One minute to admit to myself what I couldn’t mere minutes ago: that my feelings for this womanmightbe too strong to be called friendly. Only maybe; I can’t say for certain. My relationship with Lydia is unlike any relationship I’ve had with a woman before, and the line between friendship and more isn’t as clear. But for this one minute, I let myself acknowledge that I’m closer to that line than I want to be.

Then, when that time is up, I release Lydia and send those thoughts and feelings to the deep recesses of my mind where hopefully they’ll stay.

What I can’t give up, however, is touching her. I take her hand in mine, relying on her lack of romantic feelings for me to keep things feeling platonic. She told me, after all, that when we touched she wasn’t trying to flirt with me. I’m not trying to flirt with her either, for that matter. I just want to keep her close.

When we leave the cemetery, I bid goodnight to Luc and Gabin, sending the latter a glare as his gaze trails once again over Lydia’s legs. I can hardly fault his interest or attraction, but he needs to keep his eyes to himself. He winces when he sees my look, departing with a hasty stride.

Luc, on the other hand, doesn’t leave like I expect him to. He falls into step on the other side of Lydia.

“Do not forget your bicycle,” he says to her, and she nods, pointing down the street.

“It’s just up here.” She looks at me. “I can ride it back, or we can just walk with it.”

“I can ride it back to your parents’,” Luc says, glancing at me and then Lydia. “If you two want to walk.”

I give him a suspicious look, and in return he wiggles his eyebrows and looks pointedly at Lydia. The man is incorrigible.

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