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"You okay?" he asks.

I nod. Then shake my head. Then laugh at myself because I can't seem to decide.

"Maybe a little nervous," I admit. "Which is stupid. It's just a village, but I've spent my whole life imagining the day I would come here, and now...." I trail off.

"And now it's no longer a distant fantasy."

I turn to him. How does he know exactly what's in my head? How does he keep surprising me?

"Yeah. How do you always have the words when I don't?"

"I've lived with those too. Wondering what it would be like once I knew my father. What it would be like once I had a family."

"Right... of course." I say, because I can't imagine what it would be like to not know your father until he passes away, and not know your siblings until his death brings you all together after years of intentionally keeping you apart.

He just says, "Take your time. We have all day."

So I do.

I let the place settle into me the way it's lived in my imagination for twenty-six years—in my father's stories, in my mother's brushs, in every dream I ever had about the version of my life where she was still here and we came back together.

Then I open the car door and step out.

The air smells like salt and flowers and warm stone. Like the Riviera everywhere else, but quieter and more intimate.

Everett comes around the car and stops beside me.

For a second we just stand there together, looking down at the village curving around its harbor.

Then he tips his head toward the path. "Come on."

We walk down into Villefranche through streets so narrow our shoulders nearly brush the walls on either side. The village is everything I pictured with its crumbling plaster, iron balconies trailing flowers, and cracked shutters. Somewhere above us, a woman is hanging laundry on a line. Below, the sound of the sea gets louder.

Everett walks beside me without hurrying. No phone. No agenda. His sunglasses pushed up on his head, his hands in his pockets, his pace matched to mine as if not to rush me. He looks like a James Bond character trying to blend in linen and casual but he's too gorgeous to ever blend in.

He's giving me this.

Not just the place but the time to explore and the safety of knowing I'm not doing any of this alone.

We reach the waterfront and I stop to stare at the harbor. Small boats bob in water so clear I can see straight to the bottom. The buildings crowd right up to the edge with their reflections making it hard to tell which are the real buildings and which ones are the mirror.

"My dad said she used to paint here," I say softly. "Right along this stretch. She'd set up in the morning and stay until the light changed."

Everett looks at the waterfront like he's trying to see it. Trying to picture a woman he never met, painting in a spot that's probably changed and probably hasn't.

"Did he say where she lived?" he asks.

"Up the hill somewhere. A balcony apartment with blue shutters and climbing roses." I smile faintly. "That describes about half the buildings here."

"Then we'll find the right half."

That makes me laugh. He's always so sure about everything, but it's the thing that also makes me feel so safe with him. He says what he means and he does what he says. He's not the kind of person who overpromises and underdelivers.

But it's also why I have to remember to take our agreement at face value. He said only twelve months, and to not fall in love with him. The things that I admire about him may also be the thing that breaks my heart.

I shake the thought. I can't think about that now. I need to be in the present. How many more times am I going to get the chance to marry a billionaire and travel to the place I have wanted to see my entire life. If this is my last chance, I need to savor it. Our agreement is something I will have to come to terms with later.

We wander. That's the only word for it.