Page 125 of One Wrong Move

He pulls my hips against his. “Yes,” he says. “So, you want to go to Paris?”

“One day,” I say. Nate’s nearness is chasing away the hurt from the past, and letting my frustration slowly wash away.

“One day,” he repeats. He rests his head on top of mine, and we both watch as I stir the pasta and sauce together into one delicious, creamy mixture. “How does this Friday sound?”

Nate

I choose the Land Rover. Spacious, less conspicuous, and significantly less valuable. It has our bags in the back and ample legroom in the front. Plus a radio, which is key for Harper, who is handling the music on the drive.

London to the Channel takes no time at all. The Channel itself is slightly more of a hassle, waiting in line at Folkestone for our turn to drive onto the train shuttle. Harper makes soft oohing sounds at all of it. “So we can’t drive the tunnel ourselves?”

“Not allowed,” I say, and can’t help the rueful note in my voice.

She laughs at me. “Twenty minutes of darkness?”

“Give or take, yes.”

“And then we’ll be in France.” She reaches for her phone and changes the song to something in French; something I don’t know, and clearly she doesn’t, either. She smiles wide and leans back in the seat. “Did you say you had a business dinner tomorrow?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I’ve been needing to meet them for a while now. They could only do dinner.”

“That’s fine,” she says. “Who are they?”

“Thierry works for Contron and Janos is a consultant we’re hiring for an expansion into Eastern Europe. They’re spearheading a project my brother has put a lot of money behind.”

“That sounds exciting.”

I give her a crooked smile. “You don’t have to pretend.”

“I’m not, I promise.”

“The only downside is that it takes away from one of our two evenings in Paris,” I say.

“Yeah,” she says. “Or I can come with you.”

My eyebrows rise. “You’d do that?”

Her smile widens. “I think I’d enjoy watching you work. I never have before, not really.”

I run a hand through my hair and find myself liking the idea far too much. The idea of her being next to me. It feels like she belongs there. “You’re very welcome to join.”

She pulls her legs up and wraps her arms around her knees. There’s a spark in her green depths. “Okay. Looking forward to it.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “You look like you’re planning something.”

“I’m the epitome of innocence,” Harper says, blinking dramatically.

“Mm-hmm. Why do I find that hard to believe?”

“Because you’re a deeply distrustful man,” she says, but she’s grinning. “Tell me about the hotel you’ve booked.”

“What a seamless segue.”

She rolls her eyes, but her smile widens. “Tell me.”

So I do.

All in all, Calais to Paris takes us almost four hours. We stop at a tiny village, and then at another one at Harper’s request, before rolling into the City of Light. I’ve done this trip a few times previously, but the drive on the ring road around Paris, seeing the glittering Eiffel Tower in the distance, is still magnificent. Le dame de fer—the Iron Lady—rises above all of the other buildings.

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