“Now? I—” I cut myself off. “No. I’m actually late for work.” Or would be if we continued to talk. Besides, my shock was wearing off, and I was beginning to feel weak and dazed. I shook my head. “Sorry. I … this is a shock. I have to go.”

“Wait.” He reached out a hand for me, and I flinched back. Surprise and hurt flashed across his features. “Josephine …” He lowered his voice. A lock of dark hair dropped across his brow.

Sylvie said something in French, which I belatedly understood as her going to wait for him inside. She tucked her unused cigarette back in its silver case and went back in the shop.

“Xavier,” I started, shifting my weight nervously. My gaze lowered to his white shirt buttons revealed between the lapels of a dark linen blazer, anything but look at his eyes. Over the untucked tails of his shirt, his distressed jeans and pristine navy and white sneakers. God. He was so euro. And so fucking hot. Could he not just look like a slob for one second so I could get my bearings? “Please don’t do this. I have to move on. I have to get over you. Please just sort out your fancy boat and go back to France.”

“What if I say no?”

“No?”

“No, I’m not going back to France. Not right now, anyway.” Both his hands came up and raked through his hair, leaving it untamed. “And no, I don’t want you to move on, and I don’t want you to get over me. I—Merde!” he bit out the curse. “This is not how I wanted to see you.”

I pinched my damp exercise shirt off my chest. “Trust me, me neither.”

His eyes were drawn back to me, raking over my face, my hair, down my body. “You are beautiful, Josephine. Always. But your heart, your heart inside you is the most beautiful thing about you.” His hand reached out, and his palm pressed hot against my chest.

I froze. And burned. And stared.

“And I surely don’t deserve it,” he said and let go just as quickly, leaving me wildly bereft. “I know this. S’il te plaît. Please let us talk. If not now, then later. A place of your choosing. But hear me. Please hear me.”

He stared at me for long moments. Around us the city bustled, and people walked past and around us, oblivious to our moment and us to theirs. His gaze was bottomless, and I struggled not to sink into it. Into him.

Shaking my head, I took a step back.

“Josephine,” he pleaded, his voice going hoarse. “Please don’t—”

“Don’t what?” I snapped, trying to fight the emotion crawling up my throat.

“Don’t … break me.” He flinched as the admission left his lips.