Étienne (Alexander)
I straightened, still feeling her warmth on my lips. "That?" I said, as if I hadn't heard him. "That was me kissing her."
His face went an even deeper red. "You think this is funny?"
"A little." I brushed my thumb across my mouth. "You should try it sometime. It might loosen you up."
He took a step forward. "You don't talk to her like that. You don't touch her like that."
"Why?" I asked calmly. "Because she's yours?"
He hesitated. "No. But she's not yours either."
"Hmm." I tilted my head. "I'd say that's up to her to decide."
Julien glared, fists clenched at his sides. "Back off. She doesn't feel that way about you."
I chuckled. "You seem pretty sure of yourself."
"I am."
"Then prove it."
He frowned. "What?"
"Ask her," I said, jerking my chin toward Isobel. "Go on. Ask her what she thinks."
She blinked, caught between us like a deer in headlights. Her cheeks were flushed, lips still red from the kiss. She looked equal parts furious and mortified.
"Isobel," Julien said quickly, turning to her. "Tell him."
She threw up her hands. "Tell him what?"
"That you're not interested," Julien snapped. "That he's just some arrogant—"
"Charming," I corrected. "Don't forget charming."
She spun toward me. "You're insufferable, Étienne."
"Only when provoked."
"I'm not interested in either of you," she said sharply, cutting us both off.
Julien blinked. "What?"
"You heard me!" She spread her arms wide. "You're both acting like idiots. I don't belong to anyone, and I don't want to be in whatever… whatever stupid competition this is."
That dug deeper than I expected. She turned away, muttering something in French I couldn't quite catch, and strode toward the street.
Julien shot me a look. "See what you've done?"
I snorted. "Don't flatter yourself. She didn't exactly jump into your arms either."
He glared and ran after her. I followed, because apparently I'd lost all sense of self-control since coming back to Paris.
"Isobel, wait!" Julien called.
She didn't. Her heels struck the wet pavement in quick, sharp beats. Her coat flared behind her like a flag of irritation.
"Isobel!" I tried, but she waved a hand over her shoulder.
"Leave me alone!"
I caught up first. "You're walking away from two men arguing about you," I said. "At least enjoy it. Doesn't happen every day."
She turned so fast I nearly collided with her. "Oh, don't flatter yourself," she snapped. "I'm not some prize."
"You're right," I said without thinking. "You're better than one."
That stalled her for half a second. Her mouth parted like she wanted to answer, then she shook her head and kept going.
Julien came up beside me, breathing hard. "I'm warning you," he said.
"Again with the threats." I sighed. "You really think she needs protecting from me?"
"Yes."
"I think she needs protecting from your dull conversation," I muttered.
Julien's nostrils flared. "You're unbelievable."
"I've been told."
Isobel groaned behind us. "Will you two just… stop talking?"
She brushed past both of us, her shoulder knocking into mine hard enough to make me shift aside. She was furious, furious enough that her hair came loose, a few strands sticking to her cheek. She swiped them away impatiently.
"Don't follow me," she said.
"Then stop walking in the middle of the road," I said, because she was heading straight for it.
"Maybe I want to walk in the road!" she shouted without looking back.
Julien threw his hands up. "She's so stubborn."
I smirked. "Now you know how I feel."
Truth was, I couldn't stop watching her. Even furious, she moved with kinetic grace—every step a flash of heat and motion. I'd forgotten that part of her, that electric flare that made me want to argue just to see her eyes catch fire.
Except this time she didn't know who I was. To her I was Étienne Moreau—the stranger who'd bought her painting and wouldn't leave her alone.
And yet when she'd kissed me back, even for a heartbeat, it hadn't felt like the lips of a stranger.
Julien jogged ahead. "Isobel, please. Let me drive you home."
She pivoted, backing away now. "No! I don't need you—or him—or anyone!"
I raised an eyebrow. "You sure about that?"
She shot me a glare. "Yes!"
It was almost laughable—her defiance, the way she looked like she might snap—and in the same breath I wanted to pull her into myself.
I shouldn't have followed. I knew that. The sensible thing would've been to let her cool off. But my feet moved without permission.
I'd pictured her moving on: a week of tears maybe, then someone like Julien—safe, steady, with polite shoes—sliding into the space I left. The thought used to turn my stomach. Watching her now, arms flung up and storming away from both of us, I realized I'd been wrong.
She hadn't let go easily. She was still fighting.
Julien kept calling after her. I stayed quiet, a few paces behind, watching.
She reached the curb. The light flashed green. Cars whispered by, tires hissing through shallow puddles. Paris glittered under the streetlamps, the rain making everything shimmer.
"Isobel, wait!" I yelled.
She didn't stop.
"Don't you dare cross—" Julien began.
She already had one foot off the curb. It unfolded faster than I could think. A horn screamed—sharp and immediate—as a car rounded the bend with headlights like knives.
She turned her head as the vehicle bore down. Time folded and slowed; my lungs locked.
I lunged. "Isobel!"
The sound that followed was not loud so much as absolute—a metallic crack that felt like the world declaring an end. She went down hard.
Julien shouted her name. I crashed to my knees beside her, rain spattering our faces, hands slick on the wet asphalt.
Her coat lay twisted. Her hair fanned across the road like spilled ink. She breathed, shallow and fragile.
My stomach dropped. "Hey," I said, voice thinner than I intended. "Hey, open your eyes."
But there was no blinking, no answering flutter. She was out cold.