He couldn’t hide his confusion anymore. “But you love art.”

She made a snorting sound. “I love eating, too.”

“But you love art.” He wasn’t letting that go.

“Love isn’t always enough, you know. People don’t make a living painting.”

It sounded like she was parroting back someone else’s words.

He shook his head. “You could.”

She dropped his gaze, and he reached out, putting a hand on her shoulder and the other on her waist.

“You could,” he repeated.

She leaned in and kissed his chest, then rested the side of her face there, inviting him to put his arms around her. “Guess I still have to prove that to myself,” she said.

He held her close and bit his tongue.

She had no idea how lucky she was, having the opportunity to decide. Once upon a time, he would’ve given anything for that chance. Instead, there’d been his father’s college and his father’s company and his father’s entire fucking life laid out in front of him. Even when he hadn’t hated what he was doing, he’d had that hemmed-in, caged feeling pushing on him.

And here Kate had all these options. All these dreams.

He wouldn’t be the one to stand in the way of her choosing to follow them.

“Okay.” He pulled away enough to press his lips against her temple. “I won’t pretend I’m not disappointed, but I understand.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He let her go, then reached for his bar of soap. Moving quickly, he lathered it up and spread the suds across his chest.

When she spoke again, it was tentative. “Any idea what you’ll do today?”

“Not sure.” He hadn’t really planned on having a day to kill on his own. “Catch up on some things I suppose.” He probably had a lot of emails to delete. That would take at least ten minutes.

“Will you spend it here?”

He slowed the motions of his hands. “Do you want me to?”

She shrugged, then stepped aside so he could get under the spray. “I don’t think I’ll be gone the entire day. I could meet you when I’m done? Maybe relax a bit before dinner.”

He’d like that. “Sure.” He ducked his head under the water. Once he’d slicked his hair from his face, he said, “I’ll head back here by late afternoon?”

“Okay.”

A few hours, cooling his heels by himself. That was practically nothing.

It would feel like nothing, after. When she was gone for good.

He didn’t want to think about that now. He finished rinsing off and sluiced the water from his eyes. Despite the curls of steam, she looked cold, standing near the back of the shower. He held out a hand in invitation. “Come here.”

She came without resistance. Pulling her flush against his body, he opened his mouth against hers, drinking her in. He closed his eyes. And held on.

chapter FIFTEEN

Kate had let herself get way, way too comfortable with Rylan doing all the work on their adventures together. It gave her an uneasy, restless feeling, realizing how much she’d come to rely on him.

She mentally shook her head at herself. Well, not today. Today, she sat in her seat on the Metro on her own, watching the signs go by. Navigating the system and the language barrier all by herself.

Part of the appeal of foreign travel was finding your way around, after all. Immersing yourself in a whole new place, hearing different words in different tongues. She’d been missing that part of the experience, letting him do all the talking for her.

She’d gained another kind of experience, though. Her cheeks flushed warm as she tried not to think about the things they’d done these past few nights. It had been good. Really good. But that wasn’t the point right now. It didn’t matter how much she’d been enjoying herself—sex wasn’t going to help her figure out her life.

And nothing was as easy as Rylan made it out to be.

Her stomach did a twisting set of flips as she recalled his reaction to her grad school dilemma. He’d made it all seem so simple. She loved art, so therefore she should go for it, give it her all. Risk everything. The very idea of it was terrifying.

And thrilling. She’d never gotten that kind of support before. Had someone stand up to her father’s voice in her head, telling her that drawing was a waste of time. She was a waste of time.

The twisting in her stomach turned into a hard, painful clench.

Rylan’s words had made her feel better about considering taking this chance. But they were just a few words, after years and years of being made to feel like she wasn’t enough. Sure, Rylan’s opinion was the one she wanted to believe. But she still had to prove that she was worth this chance. At least to herself.

Before long, her stop came up, and she rose, clutching her bag close as she made her way off the train and up to the surface.

Of course, that was where she really had to start paying attention.

With her mental map firmly in grasp—and her paper one tucked away so she didn’t look like too much of a clueless tourist—she headed north, keeping an eye out for the things that looked familiar. More than once, she half turned to point something out or ask a question. To grab Rylan’s hand.

She rolled her eyes at herself as she crossed the street. Stupid. She’d left him behind not only because she needed some time to herself—which she did.

But also because she was embarrassed to admit that she was going back to someplace she’d already been.

Her very first day with him, she’d sworn she’d find some time to go back to the Louvre, but as her time in the city had flown by, it hadn’t been the old, grand paintings in the museum that had called to her to visit them again. Instead, it had been the city itself. The version of it that Rylan had shown her. The top of the hill where he’d challenged her to open her eyes.

And she had. And what she’d seen had been beautiful.

Montmartre was just as bustling, the climb to the top of Sacred Heart just as arduous as she remembered. But somehow, when she finally reached the top of it, the view of rooftops and skyscrapers and the swath of city spreading out before her toward the horizon was even more incredible. The feeling of lightness in her chest more expansive.

Winding her way through the thinner weekday morning crowds, she found a spot at the railing near where they had stood together Sunday afternoon. It was earlier in the day, so the angle of the sun was different, but she could work with that. She picked out a place to sit a few feet away and pulled out her tools, planning ahead in her mind. Graphite on paper to start with. Then if she liked where that was going, she had some other options. Colored Conté crayons or charcoal. A cheap little set of watercolors. Concentrating, she decided on a composition and dug in, sweeping her pencil across the page.

Twenty minutes later, she had a fair representation of the scene. She held it out at arm’s length and looked at it, frowning. Accurate, but not emotive. It didn’t give any sense at all of how it felt to be there, looking out across the Paris skyline.

Frustrated, she flipped the page and started again, attacking the scene with more fervor this time, laying down bolder lines and deeper swaths of shading. Trying to pour the light and air and scent of Montmartre into her page.

Her piece of charcoal snapped in half within her grip, and she blinked furiously against the blurring of her vision as she stared down at what she’d done. Her eyes prickled harder, and her breath got short. Shit, this one was even worse.

She wanted to fling the whole damn sketchbook off a cliff. Who did she think she was kidding? This was high school–level work; she’d be laughed out of critique for it. She’d be laughed out of grad school.

And there was that voice again.

The worst part was, her dad had almost never told her to her face that she wasn’t good enough. He’d said it with his frowns and his disappointed sighs. His absolute disinterest when she tried to show him something.