“Yes.” The anger melts away from Joe’s face. He could have been an actor. Maybe he should have been. His posture shifts until he looks forlorn. Despairing. “I know it was against the law. I’m a cop.” A bitter laugh. “I was a cop. I was sworn to uphold the law, but I couldn’t let a monster roam the streets of my small town. I couldn’t let him hurt my little sister for one more day.”

I notice the heat of my tears first. Then the sting. Mateo reaches for the remote and turns off the TV.

He takes the glass back out of my hand and puts his arm around me, curling me close to his side. “What a bastard,” he says. He’s pissed.

“Is it weird—” My sobs feel compressed into my lungs somehow. They don’t want to come out. I don’t want this emotion on display, but I can’t help it. That night on the boat wasn’t about saving me at all. It was about getting me out of the way. “Is it weird that I wish that was how it really happened?”

“No,” Mateo says. “No, it’s not.” Gentle fingers on my jaw turn my head.

He kisses me through my tears, and then he kisses them away. Every drop of salt disappears under his attention. Mateo kisses me with such pure patience. I could almost believe it would be okay if I cried forever. He’d just keep tending to my tears. This is not independent, a judgmental voice whispers. I ignore it. I want more of him. I put my arms around his neck and kiss him back, and he’s there, waiting. His hands trace a path near my spine. Too much heat in the room to cry anymore.

“Come to Paris,” he murmurs against my mouth.

I resurface with a confused blink. “What?”

“Come to Paris with me. We can fly there tonight and be back in a couple of days. We’ll take my private jet. It will get your mind off things. And make it harder for the paps to find you.”

A laugh bubbles out. “What? No.”

“Why not?” His dark eyes glint with challenge.

“For lots of reasons.”

“Name one.”

“The fact that you hate me, for one thing.” The words spill out of my mouth before I can stop them. I didn’t mean to expose my thoughts that way. Or the hurt that slips into my voice.

“I don’t hate you. I didn’t know if I could trust you. And maybe… maybe I’m an asshole.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning maybe I didn’t like the way you picked Beau in high school. The way you picked him without giving me a second glance. It was immature.”

“And now you’re mature?”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but I want to take you to Paris anyway. Let me.”

“What about Paige?”