All for You (Paris Nights #1)(4)

He looked at the fig tart and then at her face. Joss’s face was always a hard read—he kept such an adamant control over his expression—but something moved across it, intense almost to pain. “Célie,” he said, with unexpected roughness, “you’re the best part of my day.”

Damn it. Joss was having such a hard time. And all because of her damn brother. That his friend’s brat sister had become the best part of his day was proof enough of how shitty the rest of his life must seem.

But at least it was nice to know she helped make it better. She was having a hard time, too, and Joss helped make her better.

She hugged herself proudly as he lifted the tart to his mouth. As his teeth sank into it, she bounced on her toes again and made a little humming sound at the flavors and textures that must be bursting in his mouth.

“Mmm,” he said, his voice deepening, his eyes warm on her.

It was looks like those that made her crush squirm so much she couldn’t stand still. So she pivoted out and back and took a step in the direction of their HLM, the giant tower of broken-windowed concrete and rarely functioning elevators that housed all the people the Paris government had wanted to keep around as a workforce, but not badly enough to let them live in actual Paris. Well, that was its immigration history anyway. Back in the sixties, Parisian government officials had actually patted themselves on the back for building those HLMs. After all, they’d been such a step up from disease-ridden shantytowns where workers had lived among rats and mud and rubbish.

The problem was, you could make a giant step up from rats and mud and still have quite a way to climb.

But Célie was going to climb it. She was not going to get stuck here, no way. Her favorite dream of riding out of this place on the back of a motorcycle behind Joss washed through her, and she tried to stamp that pesky dream back down in with the rest of the wiggles in her stomach.

But … it would be so perfect. They could go find some little town in the south of France that needed a baker and a mechanic, far away from drug trades and gangs and hopelessness, and, God, would she be happy.

“Coming, slowpoke?” she challenged over her shoulder, sticking her tongue out at him. Any time her crush tried to take over, she had to make sure it was obvious that she was just his friend’s impudent kid sister and not stupidly in love with him.

His gaze flickered up from—her butt? Could it possibly be? Had he actually noticed she had a butt? But his expression was calm, neutral. “I’ll try to keep up,” he said, amused, reaching her with one long stride. “Célie, I still think pink is more your color.” He tugged her braid again.


She frowned at him. “I’m far too tough for pink. Burgundy, now, burgundy makes a statement.” A tough statement. Vibrant but not to be messed with.

They passed a tabac and a waft of cigarette smoke came through the door as someone left it, carrying a fresh packet of cigarettes. Célie craned her neck to take a breath of the smoke.

Joss closed his hand over her nape and kept her going. “Bad for you.”

Célie rolled her eyes. “I got it, Joss. I’m not going to start again.”

“Promise?”

“I already promised ten times!”

He didn’t say anything at all, just kept walking, not letting go of her nape. Joss could out-stubborn her any day.

“I promise!”

“Even when I’m not around, Célie. Don’t do it behind my back either.” He held her eyes, something troubled in his.

God, did he blame himself in part because Ludo had gone so wrong? Nobody could have stopped Ludo. She could personally attest to that, as the little sister who had tried. Plus, plenty of guys his age did time for drugs or theft or assault around here, it wasn’t like he was the worst guy in the world or anything.

Joss was, in fact, the only really good guy she knew. But he made up for all of them. In fact, he seemed to take it as his personal responsibility to make up for all of them—always the guy who shielded her from her brother’s most irresponsible actions and kept her brother’s other friends in line as she was growing up, growing more female and therefore more vulnerable. When she tried to learn how to flirt, she mostly practiced on him. He was safe. As she grew older, the safety stayed reassuring but it grew more and more frustrating, too.

“I promise, Joss,” she said, holding his eyes in return, putting everything of her in it.

He held her eyes one more moment. Then his hand squeezed the nape of her neck and dropped away. He shoved it into his pocket, hiding that warmth from her.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

He moved his shoulders in a minimal shrug.

She crinkled her nose. “No … uh … no luck on the job search?” she tested, and winced internally. She knew Joss’s pride. She knew how much he hated looking like a loser in front of his friend’s kid sister. And she never could figure out how to convey to him that she thought the world of him, no matter what. Didn’t it show at all, when she brought out some special dessert for him every day and her whole self lit up just to see him? She couldn’t tell him. If she exposed her crush too openly, he might distance her. For her own good, of course. Every time Joss did something that hurt her heart, it was for her own good.

His lips pressed tight, and for a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer. But then he said, “I’ll probably have to leave here, to have any chance.”