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Still, I run the statistics of my meeting him out here by chance in my head. In a city of millions, what are the odds?

“He’s not a duck,” I retort dumbly.

I could explain that I’ve actually chatted with the wildlife guide here, and was told that giving him swan-appropriate things was just fine; the sign is meant to deter people from stuffing them with bread. But that would require more words than I’m currently capable of enunciating, so he gets “Me Jane. You Tarzan. No duck.”

“So I see.” His smirk broadens. “So, legalities are dependent on the exact wording to you?”

I shiver. It’s a very pointed question to ask a stranger in the park. Again, saying so would require the full use of my vocal capacities, so I settle on, “I guess.”

“Interesting.”

What’s interesting is the fact that he’s crossing the narrow path separating us, until he’s more than near, standing right next to me.

From up close, he’s not what I expected. He’s farworse.

Strong jaw, with a bit of stubble. Straight nose. Clear gray eyes, as intense as when I feel them on me in the dark.

I redirect my eyes to Aurore rather than bear the weight of their scrutiny, feeling my cheeks explode.

Oh my god, I fingered myself thinking of him not even half a day ago. How fucking embarrassing. And I feel like it could be plastered on my face; if he looks too hard, he’ll see it.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

I glance back. It’s a perfectly normal question, objectively, but made incongruous by circumstances. Why would he care about the name of some chick in the park? Unless he knows…but he can’t, right?

“Unless you’re actually called Nala.”

My heart stops.

Oh.

I stand, staring at the stranger as my pulse flies.

“I’m aLion Kingfan.”

He nods. “Figured as much. That still doesn’t tell me your name.”

Somewhere at the back of my mind, an alarm bell rings. I tell myself I should be concerned. But I’m not.

I’ve heard about some of the girls getting followed, and worse, but if he wanted to harm me, he wouldn’t have chosen to do so at four o’clock on a sunny afternoon, in a park full of families and ducks.

“What’s yours?” I counter, to highlight the awkwardness of the question.

I doubt he’d give me his real name, either. Men might enjoy watching pretty things dance in barely there clothing, but that doesn’t mean they want their indulgence to have any impact in the real world.

Usually.

If he gives me his name, I could find him, blackmail him by offering to tell his wife where he spends his nights, or whatever other methods I’ve heard of in the changing room. I wouldn’t, but Icould.

I find myself glancing to his left hand. No ring. No hint of one recently removed either.

No wife. His girlfriend, then. Someone who looks like him can’t possibly be unattached.

“Callum Noble,” he replies without hesitation. “At your service.”

My lips part in surprise.

Before I tell him I don’t believe him, he retrieves a card wallet from the inner pocket of his jacket, and pulls one out, handing it to me.