Page 156 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

The elevator ride down is quiet. When we step out into the Paris air, the city hums around us. We walk along the path beneath the Eiffel Tower, the lights from above scattering across the pavement.

I glance at her shoes, then at her, then back at the shoes.

Before she can protest, I bend down, hook an arm under her knees, and lift her bridal style against my chest.

She lets out a gasp, her hands flying to my neck. “Arlo, put me down!”

“Not a chance.”

“Arlo!” she laughs.

I ignore her protest and keep walking.

A few streets later, I step inside a building. The man behind the desk looks up, first at me, then at the woman in my arms.

“Set me down,” she grits out under her breath.

I meet the man’s eyes, narrowing mine for a beat before finally lowering Ophelia to her feet.

She steadies herself, shooting me a glare without any real heat.

I grin and brush a stray strand of hair from her face.

The man clears his throat. “Monsieur Vass.”

I nod once. “Evening.”

“We’re ready when you are,” he says.

“Lead the way.”

He moves toward a hallway lined with framed sketches, faint music humming through hidden speakers.

Ophelia’s heels click beside me. “Why are we here?” she asks warily. “If you’re planning what I think you’re planning, I’m telling you now, the answer is no.”

I smirk, saying nothing. Her suspicion only deepens.

The man stops at a door at the end of the hall and opens it for us. “You can wait in here. He’ll be with you shortly.”

We step inside. The air carries the scent of antiseptic and ink. There’s a chair in the centre of the room, a tray of tools beside it.

I gesture toward one of the chairs. “Sit.”

She gives me a look that says I’ve lost my mind, but she sits. I take the main chair.

The door opens again, and a tall man with dark hair, tattooed arms and a calm expression on his face steps in.

“Good evening,” he says in French accented English. “You’re Arlo Vass, yes?”

“That’s right.”

He checks the notes on his tablet, then looks up. “You want the piece on your ring finger, yes?”

Ophelia’s brows lift. “Your ring finger?” she repeats.

I smirk. “Got that, didn’t you?”

She rolls her eyes. “Stop being a smartarse.”