Page 28 of Impulse Control
“So,” I said easily, like we were old friends instead of sparring partners, “tell me about the internship.”
She blinked.
Once. Then again.
The pause was almost imperceptible, but I caught it. The shift always came right there—when someone thought they knew where you were headed and you took a hard left instead.
“My—what?” she asked.
I smiled, small and calm, like I had all night. “Paris Daily. René Dubois. The man who looks like he eats bricks for breakfast. What’s he got you doing?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re changing the subject.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe I’m curious.”
That threw her more than flirting ever could.
She leaned back slightly, studying me now, reassessing. “I assist. I observe. I carry things. I shut up.”
I nodded, encouraging. “And?”
“And I learn,” she added after a beat. “Constantly.”
“How?”
Her fingers tightened briefly around her fork. “By being uncomfortable.”
I hummed thoughtfully. “That tracks.” Discomfort would goad Rachel. It would push her.
She huffed a quiet laugh before she could stop herself. “Of course it does.”
I leaned forward just a touch—not predatory, not seductive. Interested. “What’s the hardest part so far?”
She hesitated, then answered honestly despite herself. “Not reacting. Not jumping in. Learning when to wait.”
I held her gaze. “And?”
“And trusting that waiting doesn’t mean losing out or disappearing.”
I let a beat pass. Then another.
“When do you start at the Sorbonne?” I asked gently.
Her brows lifted again, surprise flickering. “September.”
“What are you studying?”
“Visual culture. Theory. History.” She shrugged. “Seeing how you build meaning into the visual story.”
“Dangerous,” I teased lightly. “You already know so much, you’ll be able to take over the world if you learn more.”
She smiled despite herself. “You would say that.”
I tilted my head. “You like Paris?”
The question was simple. Clean. Open.
Her answer wasn’t.
