Shaking her head, she marched up to the desk and dug through her purse until she found her keycard. She placed it down on the counter and slid it across to the woman standing there.

Who of course asked her a question in French.

Shit. She’d gotten way too dependent on Rylan handling all of their transactions this past week. She blinked a couple of times, all her high school French flying out of her mind, deserting her.

“English?” she asked weakly.

“But of course. Are you checking out, mademoiselle?”

“No. No, I—the other person I was staying with. He can keep the room.” It was his anyway. She bit her lip. Maybe she should offer to pay her half of the bill for the past few days. As if there was any chance she could afford it. “It’s just me who’s leaving.”

“I see.” She took the keycard and fixed her with a sympathetic look, and Kate wanted to melt right into the tile and disappear. “There is a water closet.” She pointed to the left, down a hallway, then gestured at her own face. “If you would like to freshen up, I can hold your bag.”

How much of a mess did she look like?

She nodded. “Thanks.” She rolled her suitcase to the end of the desk, where the woman tucked it under the counter.

Her cheeks burned as she rounded the corner to the bathroom, hauling the door open and stepping inside. At least there wasn’t anybody else there to witness her humiliation. She stepped up to the mirror and took a good, long look at herself.

It was worse than she’d thought.

Her eyes and nose were red, heartache written across every inch of her. In despair, she grabbed a wad of paper towels and ran them under the tap.

The goddamn gold-filigree tap.

Goddammit.

She squeezed the sodden mess in her fist and threw it away, turning off the tap and running to lock herself into a stall. Her head hit the back of the door, and her eyes blurred and burned. Hot tears made tracks down her face. Their room had been just as nice, the fixtures had shone just as brightly.

She felt so stupid, and not just for missing the signs.

Her mother’s voice kept coming back to her, telling her that people weren’t always who they said they were. Kate hadn’t learned from her mother’s mistakes, and now she hadn’t even learned from her own. After her last breakup, she’d sworn she’d learn to stand on her own, that she’d never let anyone lure her in with pretty words again.

Rylan’s words had been pretty all right.

Another choking sob tore itself free from her throat. He’d made her feel special, and so she’d let down her defenses, convinced that he was different.

She took a deep, shaking breath and blew it out, opening her eyes. She tore off a couple of handfuls of toilet paper and wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

This time, she’d learned her lesson. Letting people in was a mistake, believing any of the things they told her to get her in bed. It was all a mistake.

One she was never, ever going to make again.

Rylan wanted to throw something. He eyed his phone, the lamp, half the contents of his suitcase. Reared back and started to take a swing at the wall itself but drew himself up short.

He could see the headline in the gossip page: BELLAMY HEIR TRASHES HOTEL ROOM. He didn’t need that shit.

He didn’t need any of this.

Threading his hand through his hair, he gave it a good hard tug and turned around to look at the fucking empty room he’d been left with. She’d only stalked out a few minutes ago. If he ran he could catch her. For a few euros, the doorman would probably be happy to tell him which way she’d gone.

But no. Fuck, no. He’d already made his case. He’d stopped her ten times on her way out. Nothing he could say would change anything. It would probably just make things worse. He couldn’t go after her.

He couldn’t stay here, alone, either.

Jaw gritted, barely restrained violence still thrumming through his limbs, he gathered up what little of his stuff he’d let get strewn across the room and shoved it into his bag. Out of habit, he opened all the drawers and checked the closet. Even lifted up the bed skirt—

Only to find a book there.

A sketchbook.

Fuck.

It suddenly seemed impossible to breathe through the tightness of his chest. He flipped it open, and he had to close his eyes. Had to stop himself from crinkling the paper in the stone of his fist.

They were the pictures of him, of course. A dozen pages of his face and his eyes and his hands. All of him, spread nude across that bed.

He’d shown her so much. He’d hidden things he shouldn’t have, but his ribs were clawing at him with the anger boiling in his chest.

Well, fuck her. Fuck that and fuck everything. He grasped the pages in his fist and moved to tear them out and—

And he couldn’t. It was all he had of hers.

Faltering, eyes hot, he closed the book and laid it on top of all the other crap in his bag. He’d find a way to get it back to her. That would be the right thing to do.

With that, he zipped up the bag and slung it over his shoulder.

He took the stairs down to the lower level. When he slid his card across the counter to the woman at the desk, she raised one eyebrow and asked, “Vous partez?” Are you checking out?

That had been his plan, but . . . “Non.” He’d booked the room through the end of her stay.

And he might be livid with her now, but if she couldn’t find someplace else . . . she could always come back here. He wouldn’t take that option away from her.

The woman furrowed her brow as she scanned the card. “Une clé nous a déjà été rendue pour cette chambre.” I’ve already had another key returned for this room. She looked up from her screen, and the expression on her face was damning.

Kate had dropped her key off when she’d left. It made him even angrier, that she would have left herself without recourse. What if she couldn’t find someplace? Her options had to be limited on her budget, and hostels sometimes sold out.

“Oh.” He blinked a couple of times. Dammit all. Refusing to be judged, he asked to add another name to the reservation.

Kate wouldn’t come back. Her pride wouldn’t let her. But if she had to . . . he’d make sure she was taken care of.

It was too little too late. But it was all he had left that he could do.

Of course the only open bunk was a top one, smack-dab in the middle of the room.

Kate put her bravest face on. She was lucky to have found a place to stay, and to have been able to afford it. Forget that it had no privacy, or that she was probably going to fall and break her neck if she had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

She shook her head and rolled her suitcase up to the wall beside the bunk. She was lucky to be here, and it was only two nights. Two nights alone in a tiny bed, sharing a room with five strangers.

But it was fine. The best she could have hoped for, considering.

Grabbing her purse, she climbed the ladder up to her bed. At least the ceiling was high enough that she could sort of sit up without bumping her head. Sighing, she dug through her bag until she found her travel guide. It was already well into the evening, so there wasn’t much point going out, but she could figure out what to do with the rest of her trip. Not everything was lost. She had one more day here in Paris, and she had the freedom to spend it any way she wanted to. No negotiating about when to meet up with anyone for dinner. No smoldering, pleading eyes staring at her. No gorgeous man entreating her to stay in bed.

Just her and her sketchpad. Exactly how she’d wanted it to be.

But it wasn’t what she wanted anymore.

The idea of exploring museums on her own hurt her heart. Eating meals in cafés alone, reading a book when she could be snuggled up in bed, watching weird TV while listening to the translation being whispered, warm against her ear. It all hurt.