Trey

by Christie Ridgway

  What a way to play hooky.

  They’d eaten cereal for dinner and Mia had never been able to pour a bowl for any reason again.

  The teenagers moved on only to be replaced by a parade of others, often couples who wanted photos taken by friends or long-armed selfies of themselves beaming or embracing or kissing with the background of a thousand I love yous. Not one of them seemed deterred or distressed by the presence of those splashes of red.

  “Have you ever been in love?” Trey asked.

  She considered telling him the question smacked of the past, but why act reluctant to answer? “Nope.”

  “Me neither.” He glanced over, and she could feel his gaze on her profile. “Which means we’ve both never had our hearts broken.”

  “Nope,” she said again, then sneaked a glance, because she could tell he still studied her. “What?”

  “I’m almost sorry for us.”

  “What?” She turned her head all the way to stare at him. “You want to feel…feel shattered inside?”

  “Gotta have a high to go with that low, right?” he said slowly. “I’ve been so wrapped up in business that I never allowed myself to be wrapped up in someone else.”

  “I like being independent,” she said, briskly rubbing at her arms with her hands. She should have worn a coat instead of just the sweater over a long-sleeved T-shirt.

  “But it’s not quite living life if you do it all alone and without seeking attachment, right? That’s an essential human thing, isn’t it? It’s like going to Paris but never leaving the limo.”

  She frowned, tried to disregard his words, then frowned again, having never considered her safe-side-of-the-road attitude quite like “never leaving the limo” before.

  All this time she’d thought of herself as smart, not…not…cowardly.

  Crossing her arms over her chest, she stared straight ahead as yet another love-struck couple went giggly and googly-eyed and she felt a twinge of envy, not unlike that day at the Sacré-Cœur. Then, she’d even hidden from herself how affected she, Ms. Who-Needs-A-Man, had been watching that bridal couple, the pair clearly touched by something special.

  But the truth was, she had been enchanted by it all. There. She’d admit it. She’d been enchanted by the sight of two people in love and she’d maybe, just maybe, in her secret heart-of-hearts, for a millisecond or two, wanted that for herself.

  But what about her talent for avoiding attachment? What about her determination to eschew risk?

  Change, Nic whispered in her head. Change.

  Chapter Eight

  At noon the next day, Trey stared out the penthouse windows overlooking Paris, his phone to his ear. His cousin Brock droned on about the McKinney deal and some issue with the IT department. If he noticed Trey’s lack of response, he didn’t say anything. The business text and emails had by and large dried up ever since he’d talked to his assistant, Jer, the day before. He’d told him a serious family matter was taking up all Trey’s time, and surprise, surprise, whatever the other man—now worth double his weight in gold—had passed on made the vast majority of the usual suspects who clamored for his attention back off.

  Except Brock, who’d texted last night to insist Trey call at six a.m. Boston time. Yet even he sounded tentative when he cleared his throat. “Uh, Trey?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you making any headway with Aunt Claire? Learning anything?”

  “A little,” he said, not admitting his mom was off in another country. “Nothing to share at the moment though.”

  He closed his eyes, fully aware the truth was going to have to come out. But not right now, when he was still becoming accustomed to the idea. Though hadn’t he always known there was something different about himself? He’d chalked it up to being the eldest, to being the one expected to carry the company forward, but perhaps Claire and Graham had treated him differently than the others because of the way he was conceived.

  Yeah, it was going to come out that he wasn’t truly a Blackthorne and that—hell, a new thought struck. Hard.

  While he still shared blood with his brothers, there was no genetic commonality between him and the three “cousins” who’d been raised alongside him. Brock and Phillip and Jason were no more related to him than strangers.

  A great…something welled inside him. A disconnect, he thought. Or just emptiness. A void where his identity used to take up so much space. Graham Wallace Blackthorne III, the heft of that gone.

  “Hell,” he muttered.

  “Maybe you should come back,” Brock said suddenly. “Yes. I definitely think you should come back.”

  “Why’s that?” Trey frowned. “Wasn’t it you who insisted I come to Paris in the first place?”

  “You sound tired. Not like yourself.”

  Trey laughed, the sound short and jagged. “And a few hours at my desk will cure all my ills, right? You guys are getting on just fine without me.” Their privately owned company, ruled by the iron hand of Graham Wallace II, didn’t really require an Executive Vice President of Operations, Trey’s title. They all knew it was merely his waiting position until the current CEO decided to retire and step down.

  It had been his waiting position. Now…

  “Paris doesn’t seem to suit you,” Brock said, then hesitated. “I’m picking up on something in your voice.”

  Trey felt his mouth curve up, despite everything. “Jenna’s putting you in touch with your feelings. Cute.”

  This time his cous—Brock—laughed. “Don’t think you can distract me by insulting my manhood. Or talk of Jenna, either, though I admit I could spend an hour describing all the ways she’s perfect for me.”

  Trey groaned, as he was meant to, at the other man’s smug tone. “Okay, I give up then.”

  “You’ll leave Paris?”

  At that moment, the penthouse entry door swung open and Mia walked in, having used her key as he’d instructed. He’d thought he might still be involved in the call, but now, looking at her, he only wanted off of it.

  “I like Paris,” he said absently, his gaze taking in the rippling stream of her chestnut hair and the peach perfection of her skin. Her mouth, a peachy rose, instantly ignited his lust. They’d not slept together since very early the morning before. He’d considered trying to persuade her back into bed last night, but had decided to let her make the next move. He’d been clear enough that he was willing. “I like everything about Paris.”

  Without more ado, he ended the call with Brock, his gaze never leaving Mia. He didn’t know what was going on between them exactly, and the old Trey would have wanted to pin that down, because he was the kind of man who liked things spelled out in black and white. That love wall—le mur des je t’aime—popped into his mind, which was somewhat…unsettling.

  Mia came closer, her head tilting as she studied his face. “You look a little…I don’t know. Bad conversation?”

  “No.” Though he thought he’d been a little short with Brock, there at the end. It was getting harder to stave off the full-blown identity crisis hovering over his head. “It’s weird talking to those back home when they don’t know the whole story…and I’m not ready for that to be divulged just yet.”

  “You need a break,” she said. “You deserve a break.”

  “I’ve been away from the office for days.” Despite everything, he couldn’t staunch the guilt. “I’m accustomed to being there and people are accustomed to seeing me there.”

  Mia’s hands went to her hips. “When did you last take time off just for yourself?”

  With a frown, he thought back. “There was this one spring break during college—”

  “That had to be eons ago!”

  “I’m not that old.” He narrowed his eyes at her, feeling a little sick to his stomach. “Do I seem that old?”

  “You seem like a guy who’s been trudging down a familiar, expected path his whole life.”

  “Does that translate to I’m boring?”

  She smiled and
came near enough to touch one finger to his chest. “You haven’t been boring to me.”

  He smiled back, then it died as he heard himself confess, “My whole life I’ve been trying to measure up and prove I can take over the company when the time comes.”

  A moment of silence passed, as if she was taking that in. Then she declared, “Well, now you get to slay the demon of expectations.”

  “The demon of expectations?” At her enthusiasm, he smiled again. “How exactly do I do that, o wise woman?”

  Tapping her mouth with her finger, she seemed to consider. “What did you dream about being as a kid? A chef? A cowboy? A—”

  But he was already shaking his head. “I knew what I was going to be from…well, forever.”

  “Halloween—”

  “Businessman. Every year my mom put together a costume that was a dark suit and tie. I carried a miniature briefcase to collect the candy.”

  Mia’s eyes went wide. “That is so sad,” she said. “No one should give treats to children wearing any suit that isn’t an imitation of a superhero’s.”

  “Brock had the idea first,” Trey remembered, thinking back, “so I reconsidered my farmer overalls and switched.”

  Mia’s eyes brightened with interest. “You once wanted to be a farmer?”

  “Because of corn,” he said. “One harvest time we went to a farm where the sugar and gold variety of corn we use for our top-shelf whisky grows.” It had begun his fascination with the process of making their signature spirit, way before he was legal to drink it.

  “I know what we need to do,” Mia said, already turning toward the door. “C’mon.”

  “The list, right? Nic’s list?”

  “Not today,” she told him, marching forward so he had to lengthen his stride to catch up with her. “We’re going to focus on you exploring whomever you want to be instead of you getting hung up on the fact you’re no longer who you thought.”

  Trey mulled that over as he let her—again—lead him underground. Was he hung up on the fact that he was no longer by blood the eldest son, the crown prince of the Blackthorne empire? Hell, yes! Who wouldn’t be set on their ass to find out they—

  Didn’t have to step into the role they’d always thought their DNA demanded.

  Now you get to slay the demon of expectations.

  The one that had been riding his back his entire life.

  Seized by the novel thought, from his seat across from Mia in the Métro car he watched her pull on fuzzy gloves. His mind leaped to a new topic. Exactly what was it about her that appealed to him so? Her face—charmingly versus traditionally beautiful. Her body, average sized but on the delicate side, which accentuated his height and strength and, likely, his ego.

  But it was her spirit, he decided, her energetic vivacity that enlivened the facts-and-figures, very dry side of his nature. She was, with her artist’s eye and her eagerness to rub a fairy’s wing, so much he was not. And because of that, frankly, good for him.

  When the train came to a rocking halt, he followed her out of car into the station, climbing more steps until they stood on a sidewalk in a definitely non-tourist part of town. Head bent, she studied her phone, while he zipped up the welcome outerwear he’d found in his luggage. His housekeeper had done the majority of his packing for the short trip, and she’d slipped in a down jacket that rolled into a package not much larger than his hand.

  He welcomed the layer against the elements, as autumn appeared to have arrived overnight. “Are you going to be warm enough?” he asked Mia, but instead of waiting for a reply, he slung an arm around her. They headed off, snuggled together like a long-familiar couple.

  For a man who didn’t go in for much—any—PDA, he liked this, enough that he didn’t stop himself from dropping a kiss on the side of her hair.

  She glanced over, gifted him with a little smile, but didn’t say anything as they passed through an outdoor food market, pausing to admire vegetables he couldn’t name, seafood that appeared fresh and exotic, and cheeses that begged to be sampled.

  They did.

  By the time they’d walked the entire long line of booths, they had more cheese to take home, a baguette, and a bagful of croissants. He steering her to the griddle where a man was making fresh crêpes, but she begged him to wait until later.

  “Later.” He frowned. Though he’d never been a greedy eater, something about Paris…he didn’t want to postpone anything that tasted good. So he kissed her, a lingering, tender kiss, and once he’d dazed her again, he got his way and nearly made himself sick by wolfing down another treat, dripping with fruit.

  Following that, they walked more slowly up the street to what he discovered was their intended destination—a flea market. That’s when he understood the part where they were going to focus on you exploring whomever you want to be.

  Besides knickknacks and furniture, jewelry and vinyl records, there were several booths featuring what Mia declared to be clothing that was “truly vintage.”

  He opted not to mention that secondhand place they’d visited before, the one she’d called “vintage” too, as she eagerly worked her way through racks of hanging stuff. “Try it on,” she called, and he took what she shoved at him.

  “Something died for this,” he said, holding up the article between two fingers for inspection. “And then went through a paper shredder.”

  “It’s a fringed vest from the 1960s,” she said. “Give it a try.”

  “I can rule out wanting to be a hippie without that,” Trey told her.

  At her quelling look, he slid his arms through the holes. “God.” There was a long oval mirror nearby and he flinched at his reflection, then thought he must be mad when he let her shove some sort of furred top hat on his head.

  “Who was the leader of that band? From San Francisco? LA?” she asked, her gaze sweeping him from head to toe. “He—”

  “Must have had a crazy mermaid in his life,” Trey finished for her as he quickly removed the offending articles.

  With a laugh, she handed him a heavy coat, embellished with gold trim. “Maybe you were destined for the military,” she said, but the French uniform, all the military pieces of clothing as a matter of fact, were too narrow in the shoulders for him, even with his own lightweight parka thrown over a stack of tuxedo jackets that wouldn’t have fit him when he was twelve.

  “Americans,” the shopkeeper said with derision and a dismissive wave of his hand. “Everything so big.”

  Trey leaned to whisper into Mia’s ear. “And he says that like it’s an insult. Doesn’t he understand that’s a feature, not a bug?”

  For some reason the comment set her off and he followed suit, the both of them laughing like they shared the greatest joke in the universe. She’d found this froth of a hat from some other century that sat perched on her head and had wound a gaudy rhinestone bracelet around each wrist. She might have looked like a child in dress-up clothes, but instead she just looked like Mia, his Mia, decked in Paris splendor and autumn sunshine. A woman, graceful and beautiful and with a lively sense of fun.

  Her mouth still smiling, she spun around, as if unable to contain her exuberance. “Nic would have loved this,” she said, and picked up a shawl that she flung around her shoulders. “She would have really loved this.”

  He stood back, enjoying her pleasure, and realized that it was the first time he’d seen her so carefree. Even when she’d laughed and smiled before, there’d been a sense of sadness about her. A heaviness holding her down.

  For the moment, at least, it was gone.

  It works both ways, Trey thought. I’m good for Mia too.

  Something he’d never been for any other woman.

  Chapter Nine

  “Let’s do something for you,” Trey said, his eyes warm, his mouth still curved in a smile.

  She glanced over as she returned the 1940s-era evening hat to its stand. “What do you mean?” With a shrug, she slid the shawl from her shoulders and folded it onto a stack of
them, then unfastened the heavy rhinestone bracelets.

  Trey took them from her hand. “We need these,” he said, turning toward the Parisian standing nearby. “Combien?” he asked the man, whose friendliness went up a mere half-notch at the prospect of making a sale.

  “Are those for Claire?” she asked, as the seller began wrapping them up once money exchanged hands. She wasn’t surprised that Trey hadn’t haggled, though it likely incurred only more of the Frenchmen’s disdain.

  “These are for you,” he said, passing over the package, wrapped charmingly in a bag fashioned out of a nearly threadbare, but obviously silk, scarf.

  “Me?”

  He put his arm around her and began leading her away. “You. In place of those tattoos you were hankering for.”

  “I wasn’t hankering,” she said with a huff. “And I can’t accept—”

  He kissed her mouth, short and hard, interrupting her protest. “Take the bracelets. To remember me by.”

  To remember me by.

  Right. She was going to have to do that—remember him. Because Trey Blackthorne’s future place in her life was as a memory of…of…

  God, she hoped it wasn’t going to be a memory of disaster.

  She hoped she wasn’t getting too close to him, not when her guard was likely down because of Nic and because she’d slept with him and because he was handsome and sometimes sweet and funny and because—

  “Have you decided what we’re doing for you?” he asked.

  And because it was possible no man had ever said such a thing to her. Let’s do something for you.

  It was such a…surprise, that she actually went along with the idea and told him where she wanted to go. Then he took her by the hand and let her lead him there.

  “I can’t believe you haven’t visited this place yet,” he said, as they passed through the Louvre Museum security.

  Even though this was her first time, she’d done her research and had known to skip the main entrance through the I.M. Pei pyramids and go underground via the Métro. They’d bought tickets with their phones, too, but it didn’t appear to be crowded this October afternoon.