Trust Me (Paris Nights #3)(71)

Jake was silent a moment. “What if you had to?”

She stared at him.

“Because it works both ways, Lina. Ninety percent of military wives don’t have jobs, and it’s not because they’re rolling in riches and happy to live off their husbands. It’s because he can’t choose where he goes, so she has to give up her career or he does. Or they give up their relationship. And you know who always, always is the one who gives up the career? She is.”

Lina’s eyes snapped at that.

“But I can see what your career means to you, Lina. Hell, you were back in your kitchens days after a terrorist attack, pouring yourself into it. So I’ve thought about it. A lot. I’m not sure you have. I’m not sure you’re listening to what I’m offering. I think I can be ready to move on. There’s a reason you don’t see many forty-year-old special ops guys. They either die—”

Lina flinched.

“—or they change. They have to change. We think we’re immortal at nineteen, but by thirty, our joints are starting to point out that we’re not. But you don’t have to change your career. There’s no age limit on yours. Although, hell, Lina, you might end up having to compromise your ambitions, too. If we—”

He broke off. Have kids. For example. I hear those take up a lot of time. Who knows? Maybe you’d want to have evenings free, if you had kids. The same way I’d like to be home to make sure they grow up right, and not fighting a war for who knows what reasons.

He tried again. “I know neither one of us is very good at believing in a future right now, Lina, but I’d like to plan for one anyway. One where we’re together.”

Living in the moment has its good points. But I’m not that person anymore. I want to build now. Build something that will last.

Lina flexed her fists uneasily. “I just don’t want you to make yourself smaller for me,” she finally said helplessly. “I’m not small.”

He reached out and took her hands. “And I already told you. I don’t think I have to make myself smaller for you. I think I have to make myself bigger.”





Chapter 19


Terror struck into the heart of the Au-dessus kitchens the day they re-opened. It was a ghost terror, but the shade was a tenacious one, as it was meant to be. It was the goal of a terrorist, to scar a city and warp its people into something terrorized.

They all felt it. They’d changed the security system on the kitchen door—no more easy access for delivery people. Police had set up security at each end of the street and at the restaurant doors.

But still, they all kept glancing toward that kitchen door, then focusing quickly back on their work.

Lina’s nerves stayed tight, even as she kept her brigade at an intense rhythm. She’d deliberately done something she never did—set things up to not run entirely smoothly, so that each member of her team from her sous-chef to her pale but determined fifteen-year-old apprentice was working so hard to stay on top of the moment they could barely spare attention for worry.

But still they managed those flickering glances.

“We’re open!” Vi called, and a cheer went up from the entire team. It vibrated through the kitchens, deep voices and high, mingling in a battle cry. We’re not afraid. You can’t beat us.

Lina’s eyes stung with pride, and she shook herself so that no one could see her and mistake that stinging for any other kind of tears.

Out on the restaurant floor, the first people would be coming in, the tables booked solid from the seven-thirty open through the official last reservation at ten, which usually meant they cleared their last tables after midnight. In the time period between the attack and the re-opening, that space of time when feet got colder and colder, plenty of reservations had been canceled.

And the new requests to fill those spots had quadrupled. A different breed of Parisians rushing in. Not as many of those who had money to casually spend on Michelin-starred restaurants, but the ones who spent the money that they did have in order to make a point. Some of them were indulging in a starred restaurant for the first time in their lives, and they did it as a declaration. We love you guys. We’re here with you. And we’re not afraid.

Only Parisians could tell terrorists to go f*ck themselves in quite this way. By hanging out with friends at a top restaurant, drinking fine wine over a long, delicious meal, and, Lina hoped to God, raising an eyebrow or two ironically at the faintest suggestion that anyone could ever make them do anything different.

Lina loved those people so much she wanted to kiss every single damn one of them. And since she couldn’t, she was sending them a special dessert instead.

“I like the dragons,” Vi said. She was not supposed to be on her feet all evening, and therefore her second, Adrien, was supposed to be in charge of the main side of the kitchens. Vi had had to come over to Lina’s side of the kitchens to stop herself from second-guessing every single one of Adrien’s calls.

“Yeah?” Lina studied the dessert, pleased with herself. It had been incredibly tricky to design a dessert of chocolate and spun sugar that looked like a dragon breathing fire. “I wanted it to be a hydra, but getting two necks on that thing was hell.”

“What is it with you and this hydra obsession lately?”

“Long story,” Lina said. “Let’s say I respond poorly to people who try to cut off my head. Or make this city scared.”