Lily in hand, I follow the trail of flickering votives, hurrying barefoot down the winding steps, then through the open patio doors and into the courtyard. More candles dot the yard, weaving through the cool grass around the moonlit swimming pool, marking a path to Jack’s fire.

The night smells like jacaranda blossoms and the flame trees that decorate the garden with bright orange blooms. I lace my fingers in Jack’s. He brushes a loose tendril of hair back from my face.

“Happy anniversary.”

“This is amazing,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around his waist.

“You’re amazing.” He takes the lily and tucks it behind my ear. His thumb strokes my cheek and his mouth curves into a wide grin. “And you’re covered in paint,” he laughs, smearing some away.

My skin flushes as I swipe my face with the back of my hand.

“Am I underdressed for our date? I could go clean up,” I say, pulling out of his arms.

“Don’t you dare.” He tugs me back by the waist until I’m flush against his chest.

Head tipped back, I gaze up at the stars. They’re brighter than usual with the villa dark behind us, and the sight of them takes my breath away. Like the night we spent lying side by side on his open sleeping bag on a mountain in Tennessee. Jack traces lazy circles over my lower back as he gazes up, too, and I wonder if he’s remembering the same night I am.

“Off the grid, huh?” My heart warms at all the effort and thought he’s put into this. We’re stuck here until Lyon lifts the travel ban, but somehow, Jack’s managed to transform our courtyard into someplace magical, an escape from the rest of the world.

“Where would you go if you could go anywhere, Fleur?” His smile is soft and vulnerable, just like it was on the sailboat when we escaped from London.

“Anywhere?”

“Anywhere.” He said the same thing then. Anywhere, he promised me.

My eyes close, my mind wandering back to the canvas in my studio as my paint-stained fingernails trace the contours of his chest.

“Then I’d choose the pond by your grandfather’s cabin.” That one perfect magical night when we were careless and happy. Perfectly balanced. “I want to go back there,” I tell him, aching as I realize how much I mean it.

“The pond.” His smile fades. “Not Amsterdam or Chile? Not Canada?” he asks quietly. “If I could take you anywhere—anywhere in the world—that’s where you’d want to go?”