Stepping into the closet, I grab my leggings from last night, pull them on under Kayden’s shirt, and turn my attention to my new memory wall. A few seconds turn into a minute, but apparently memories require coffee, because I get nothing this morning. Except . . . my gaze lands on that chocolate shop, Hermés Le Chocolat, and I press two fingers on it. “Is this where you are, little butterfly?”
I tear the page off the wall to show it to Kayden and start to turn, only to have my gaze land on my ballet slippers. In my mind, I see my father in my bedroom, holding one of them, talking to me about my lessons. It’s not a good or a bad memory. It’s just a memory.
I feel Kayden before I see him. “Morning,” he says in that low, gravelly, sexy tone he sometimes has, and I always love.
I pick up one of the ballet slippers and turn to find him in pajama bottoms, a snug white T-shirt, and slippers, his rumpled hair and shadowed jaw deliciously masculine.
“?‘Well, honey,’?” I say, imitating my father’s low voice, “?‘I guess if you have to do this dance thing, at least they’ll never expect a ballerina to kick their ass.’?”
His lips curve. “I take it that’s a quote from your father.”
“Yes,” I say, setting the slipper back on the shelf. “That was right before he handed me a quiz on types of ammunition.”
He laughs. “What else would a father quiz his daughter on?” He folds his arms in front of that broad, impressive chest and leans on the door frame. “Speaking of ammunition: Blake Walker. I want to know what he knows. And I want to be sure our men guarding Sara don’t conflict with his. I arranged to bring him here.”
“Here? Can’t he be tied to Sara that way? Should we allow him to be seen here?”
“Exactly why I don’t want us in public with him. Adriel is doing a covert pickup. And he’ll enter the castle in the car, out of sight.”
“Of course,” I say. “Why would I even question you having thought of this?”
“Better to bring it up than not,” he says, proving yet again why I feel he’s a great leader. He makes decisions. He makes demands. But he is confident in himself and in his role to listen to others and welcome input. “I do miss things.”
“Doubtful,” I say, “but you know I’m still going to give my two cents.”
His eyes warm, and while yes, there is a hint of that sin and sex he does so well, there is a different kind of warmth I decide is even better. It’s trust and friendship. When he glances at the piece of paper in my hand, he asks, “What’s that?”
“This is the chocolate shop I keep remembering,” I say, offering him the paper.
He reaches for it and looks at the page, then at me. “I know where it’s located.” He folds the printout and sticks it in the pocket of his pajama bottoms. “You think the necklace is there?”
“I can’t imagine there would be a place to hide it there, but I went there with it in my possession. Going there, when it’s possible, might be the final trigger to unlock my memory.”
“I can at least go there and search the place when I’m in Paris.”
“When you’re in Paris,” I repeat, my gut twisting with that idea. “I hate you going without me.”
“You know—”
“I know what you’re going to say. Sasha said it, too. But consider this: I could be used as a good distraction. I—”
He reaches for me and pulls me to him. “No. Not this. You can help plan everything, and be involved in every way except putting yourself in his reach.”
“Can we at least—”
He cups my head and kisses me. “No. If that means we fight, we fight.”
My hand flattens on his chest. “I’m really not feeling like fighting with you, Hawk, but I reserve the right to change that at any minute.”
A low rumble of sexy masculine laughter escapes his lips. “Duly noted, future wife of The Hawk. We need to get you a ring.”
“You choose it. That will make it special.”
“I have something in mind.”
“Then that’s what I want.”
He gives me the tender, warm look that defies the dark, hard parts of him, and makes him even sexier and more alluring. “Blake won’t be here until this afternoon,” he says. “We have plenty of time for you to grab those slippers and use your studio upstairs. You can show me your moves.”
The suggestion is unexpected, as is the jolt it delivers. “No,” I say, that jolt turning to a squeeze in my heart. “It reminds me of my mother, and right now, I need to just deal with my father. I’ll revisit that other part of me later—but I wouldn’t mind hitting the gym.”
“I want to see you dance,” he says, his voice a gentle, stubborn prod.
“You think I’m hiding from something.”
“You haven’t resisted the idea of dancing before now, sweetheart. Something else is going on. I think you’re afraid that giving yourself permission to do something you love, just because you love it, makes you weak. It doesn’t.”
He’s hit a nerve I didn’t know existed, and it’s far closer to the truth than the answer I’d given us both a few moments before.
“When was the last time you danced?” he asks. “Really danced?”
Okay, maybe there is truth to both answers. Because my chest tightens and I look to the ceiling, fighting an unexpected wave of emotion. “A little here, when I was alone one night.”