“It’s okay. I’m actually kind of glad because—”
“Hold up!” I interrupt again. “You’regladyour grandmother died?”
“Non, not that she died, but—Voyons, I think maybe I should come inside so we can start this from the beginning.”
I hold up a finger. “You’re still not off the hook, but I think maybe you’re right.”
That hopeful grin is back on his face as he climbs the stairs two at a time.
“Ah, merde!”
I’m pulling the door open when the disembodied exclamation makes both of us jump.
“They’re going inside,” continues the same voice in French from behind the window next door.
“Merde!” a second voice echoes. “That was even better than a soap opera.”
“Great,” I mutter, while Julien starts cracking up. I hurry him inside. “My love life is tonight’s prime time entertainment.
Even in the middle of laughing at my expense, he manages to raise an eyebrow. “Yourlovelife, huh?”
I shoot him a withering look. “I told you you’re not off the hook yet. Start talking.”
I lead the way into the living room and flop down on the couch, clearing enough of my books and papers away to give him a place to sit beside me—with a cushion’s worth of distance between us. That t-shirt is still distractingly tight, and I need to enforce self-control.
I wonder if he wore it on purpose.
“What point should I start at?” he asks.
“Start with me leaving your apartment after I asked you not to buy the bar.”
A shadow passes over him. A storm starts to rage in his eyes.
“I...I said some things I shouldn’t have, and I didn’t say a lot of things I wanted to. I’m sorry. I should have been ready, but I wasn’t. I didn’t know how to let go of—of all the...the...”
He struggles to put it into words, but he doesn’t have to. I lay my hand on his arm for the briefest of moments before pulling away.
“I know what you mean.”
He dips his head in a nod heavy with gratitude. “When you left, I realized I never wanted to see you walk away from me again.”
The air gets so thick I struggle to pull it into my lungs. We’ve said some pretty intense things to one another. We’ve expressed feelings four months might not even be enough time to justify, but he’s just taken this to a new level—a level where we use words like ‘never’ and ‘always.’
I don’t know what it’s like to be somebody’s always. I don’t have a concept of never. This is unexplored territory for me, and I stand on its precipice not knowing what I should fear more: taking a step forward or taking a step back.
“Julien...”
“It’s true.” His eyes sear straight to the heart of me. “I know it’s not just up to me, but I don’t ever want to feel that way again.”
It takes everything in me to stay where I am instead of throwing myself into his arms.
“Taverne Toulouse is yours. My trust fund covered the purchase.”
“Wait.” I sit up straighter. “What do you mean, ‘covered?’ When you said it was mine, I thought you meant you’d sell it to me. Are you telling me you—”
“I bought it. It’s paid for, and now it’s yours.”
“Julien!” My hands fly to my mouth. “How big is your fucking trust fund?”
