Page 96 of Pretty Mess

He smiles as if recalling fond memories. “I’ve been to many of them in my time.”

I wonder if he’d enjoyed those parties with close friends or partners, and a shaft of jealousy sears through me so powerfully that I gasp.

He stops walking. “Are you okay?”

I stare at him. I can’t be jealous. That would imply feelings that were more than just fond. Jealousy would mean I care deeply.

“Wes?” he says more insistently. He manoeuvres me to the side of the street so the people behind us can move past. “Do you feel ill?”

Pushing my horrific thoughts aside, I shake my head. “I’m fine.”

“Maybe we should go back.”

“No!” It’s far too loud, and some people glance our way, but Mac pays them no mind. “No, I’m fine,” I say more measuredly. “I just had a sudden thought about my finals.”

He stares at me, his brow furrowed, and then a sweet expression crosses his face. “You’ll be fine, Wes. I know you will. And if you’re not, then I’ll help you.”

Pushing my guilt at the lie away, I lean up and kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you. You always make me feel better.” His hand strays to where my lips landed, and when he doesn’t say anything, I stare at him. “Alright?” I ask.

“What? Yes, of course.”

I consider questioning him further but dismiss the idea almost immediately. Instead, I link my arm with his, and we resume walking.

He directs me to a set of steep steps divided by black, wrought iron railing. The sky is darkening overhead, the clouds are moving in with another storm, and the lampposts on the steps’ landings blink on one by one. “Like magic,” I exclaim, enchanted by the scene. “This place is more like I always imagined Paris to be.”

He shoots me a look that, on anyone else, I’d class as fond. “It is a charming place. I’ve always loved it.” He gestures to the steps. “Shall we go up? This is the Rue Foyatier leading to the Sacré-Cœur.”

I look up at the vast, bright white church with its instantly recognisable domes. “It’s beautiful. Like something from a fairy tale.”

He checks his watch. “We won’t be able to go in, as there’s a service on now, but the view up there is the best in Paris.”

The trees overhead rustle in a sudden breeze that blows cool against my face. “Let’s go. I can’t believe I’m going to walk up such a pretty set of steps.”

We start up them, and pretty soon they feel a little less charming and a lot more like leg day at the gym. “Why is everything in Montmartre so steep?” I mutter.

He scratches his head. “Well, Montmartre is the highest point of Paris. It’s bound to be steep. People come here to train for marathons.”

“Willingly?”

He chuckles, and I step onto a platform obviously designed with people like me in mind to pause and gather their last breaths. “Let’s stop for a minute, or die. I’m happy with either option.”

He stops beside me. “These are the stairs that featured in the filmJohn Wick.”

“You’ve seen that movie.You?”

“Why that tone of astonishment?”

“I don’t know. I sort of imagined you reading balance sheets in your off time.”

“I’d rather spend my free time fucking you.” He tuts. “Don’t you go to the gym? You’re alarmingly unfit.”

“I do go to the gym,” I say crossly. “I’m just not in training to be a mountain goat. And even Keanu Reeves paused on these steps.”

“Wasn’t that because he was wounded?”

“Oh,nowyou pay attention to culture.” That sets him off laughing, which never fails to make me smile. “You’re infuriatingly fit for a businessman,” I observe.

“Well, thank you, Wes.”