The car stops too soon, and I reluctantly drag myself off Easton’s lap just as the driver opens the door.

“Le Pavillon de la Reine,” he says. “Sir, your bags have already been taken to your room.”

I climb out, and Easton follows me, taking my hand and leading me into the beautiful old building and up the stairs. He uses his key to unlock the room and holds the door open for me.

Easton’s hotel room is nothing short of spectacular. It’s a suite, of course. The room is so beautiful that when he flips on the lights, my nerves fall away and all I can do is wander around and take in the opulence. Parquet floors, high ceilings, big windows, and chandeliers. It’s not fancy the way upscale U.S. hotels are. This is old-Europe fancy. I grew up wanting for nothing, but I’ve never in my life stayed in a place this nice. I didn’t even know Europe had hotel rooms this big. They’re known for their tiny spaces.

It’s not until I make it to the back of the suite and am studying the piles of plush bedding that I remember why I’m here and what’s about to happen. My nerves tie my stomach into knots.

“It’s a really nice room,” I say lamely, turning to him.

He looks around, and I’m suddenly aware that he’s been so busy watching me that he’s just now taking in the space for the first time. “I made my assistant track down the nicest available suite in the city. I got lucky that this one had a last-minute cancelation.”

His assistant. For a beat, I wonder if I even know this Easton—the one who doesn’t have to worry about money, the one who reserves the nicest available suite in Paris, the one who has an assistant and a driver. But that worry’s gone in a blip. He’s still Easton. He’s still the boy who bought me a signed copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone for my fifteenth birthday. The one who always looked back for me when I was swimming to the dock with the boys, just to make sure I was okay. The one who makes me feel beautiful when he touches me.

“Do you want some wine?” he asks.

Toeing off my shoes by the door, I shake my head. I don’t want anything that might make me forget part of this night.

He drags a hand through his hair. “We should’ve gone by your dorm and gotten you clothes. I’m not thinking clearly tonight. I’d like to blame jet lag, but”—he drags his gaze over me—“I’m totally distracted by your presence.”