When the Heart Falls(52)

He squeezes my hand. "This isn't just a summer fling.” He sounds sad, resigned. "But we know it won't last."

"What if it does?" I’m clinging to hope. I have to, or my heart will break.

He looks into my eyes, holding them with his gaze. "I won't ask you to leave Paris.”

"And I won't ask you to stay." We both know what it feels like to have others ask us to give up our dreams. It’s the one thing we can never ask of each other.

"Then what's left?" he asks.

"We can try long distance.”

"For how long?"

"A year, maybe. I don't intend to stay in Paris forever."

He props up on his elbow to look down at me. "What if you change your mind?"

I hadn’t thought of that, but it's entirely possible. My program could be extended. I could fall in love with France and never want to leave. "I might not. There's no way to know for sure unless—"

"Unless we try."

I nod, my eyes pleading with him. "Will you try with me?"

He stays silent, and I'm afraid he won't answer, or worse, that he will and his answer is to leave me. Then I'll be alone. Frozen in solitude. The Ice Queen. My fear shakes me, and a chill creeps up my skin. But then Cade takes me in his arms and holds me close. He whispers in my ear, "I will try. And we will find a way."

And I melt against him, feeling as if I can do anything with him by my side. Publish my book any way I want and succeed, travel the world or come back to New York, anything, because this man, so strong and sure and confident, believes in me. It's all I need.

With my lips pressed against his neck, I whisper, "She opened herself to him, and, in that moment, she opened herself to the world."





CADE SAVAGE





CHAPTER 22





"WE CAN VISIT each other once a month," Winter says, looking up from her computer. "We can chat online while we're in class, and we can talk on the phone every day. We can even see each other on Skype."

"Sure." But we can’t touch. We can’t get coffee and sit in the sun together talking about life. We can’t visit museums or dance or break presumed to be irreplaceable ancient artifacts. We can’t get up on a stage and sing.

She moves her chair to face me. "We can take turns. You'll come up to Paris one month. I'll go down to New York the next. Then you can meet my parents."

"Sure." I hope I get to. I hope our relationship lasts longer than a month once we're apart.

Now she's crossing her arms over her chest. "You don't think we can make it work."

I prop a pillow under my head and close my book, holding the page I was on. "I don't know. But I wonder… with every touch, every future promise, I wonder… if we can’t make it work, is it better for our relationship to die a slow death, or a fast one?"

"A fast one."

"You decided that a little too quickly."

She rolls her eyes. "I'm sorry. Are you hurt?"

I hold up my thumb and index finger with a sliver of light between them. "Un petit peu." A little bit.

Jumping up from the desk chair, she flops on the bed next to me, smiling. "Cade. You spoke French! This means anything can happen."

The air between us sizzles with sexual tension that never seems to leave. "Even us?"

"Especially us." She kisses the tip of my nose. Not exactly what I had in mind. "Don't worry," she says, "I'll carry your heart forever in my pocket, and we'll always be together."

"That's romantic." I scowl. "And creepy. Definitely creepy."

"You're right," she says, scooting closer to me as her hands run up my abs. "Remind me to edit that out of my novel."

"Will do. Am doing. There, you've been reminded."

She sticks her tongue out. "Screw you."

"Is that a thank you? Because I can think of better things to do with that tongue." My pants tighten in response to that thought, not to mention her hands on me.

She scowls, trying to look tough. "Just screw you."

"Screw you again? Are you trying to seduce me, Winter Deveaux?" I grab her, pulling her onto me as I lay flat on my back.

Her little fists pound into my chest. "You wish."

"With all my heart. I'd make a thousand cranes—"

She stops her futile punches and props herself up on her elbows. "Why cranes?"

"An ancient Japanese legend," I say. "If you make a thousand paper cranes your wish will come true."

Moving off of me—and my hard on—she stands and crosses back to the desk in our hotel room. "You should do that," she says.

"Too lazy. Sorry."

"I found an architecture contest for you to enter." She hands me a piece of paper.

I take the application, but don't read it. "Thanks, but I'm not ready."

"Of course you are. I've seen your work. You're brilliant."

I set it on the dresser next to the bed. "Not as brilliant as you think. Trust me. I'm the one studying this stuff."