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As they walked by the fountain in the center of the plaza, the lights flicked on, setting the pillars of water alight with a magical glow.
Beside him, Vicky let out a tiny squeal. Kind of like a little kid. It was adorable.
He looked over at her. “Everything all right there?”
She stopped to watch the water dance. “I’ve always loved this fountain.” A smile of pure delight spread across her face as she stared into the glimmering streams. “All fountains, really.”
“I was once detained for wading in one of the fountains at Versailles with some buddies of mine.”
“I remember that! There were photos.”
“Totally worth it.” He grinned.
“I thought it looked like fun.” She sat on the wide, flat marble that circled the fountain and reached her hand toward the water. “I could never do something like that.”
She sounded wistful almost. And he didn’t like how it made him feel. Why did she put limits on herself like that? She had always done it, and it had always bothered him.
“Do it.”
She turned back to him. “Do what?”
“The fountain. Go”—he made a vague waving motion—“you know, frolic in it.”
She cracked up. “I’m not going to ‘frolic’ in the fountain.”
Suddenly it became very important to him that she allow herself to do something fun. Just because she wanted to.
“Come on. I dare you.” He reached his hand out to her.
His sleeve rode up, and the edge of his tattoo peeked out from under the fabric. Vic took his hand, gently pushing the sleeve higher, examining the art.
She touched her finger to it, tracing the lines of his creation. “You were so good. Do you still draw?”
The question and the touch, both more intimate than he was used to, did things to him he didn’t have time to examine now.
“Don’t change the subject. Let’s go.” He stepped onto the circular platform and reached for her again. “I’ll come with you.”
She stared at him. Great, she was going to tell him how irresponsible and stupid this was. How even though it was too dark for recognizable photos and there was hardly anyone around, this would definitely result in a story on Page Six about how what a degenerate and general terrible influence he was and how far she had fallen in (mock) dating him.
She threw a glance over her shoulder, probably looking for the photographer that would seal their downfall or maybe just searching for an escape route, having finally realized what a terrible idea a fake relationship with him actually was.
But then she turned back to him and, much to his astonishment, broke into a wide smile. “All right!”
She took his hand, and he pulled her up beside him. She looked around again, then twisted her foot up and bent to take off a shoe. He just stood there gawping at her. Was she really going to do this? He couldn’t quite believe it.
When she went for her other shoe, she lost her balance, stumbling against him. He grabbed her at the waist to steady her. She looked up into his eyes.
Time froze for a second.
He was struck with an overwhelming urge to kiss her. Not like the night outside the Pink Heart Ball. Not to tease her or push her out of her regimented comfort zone or even to see what she would do, but just because he wanted to.
But then she giggled and bent to wrench off the remaining shoe, and the moment was gone. Just as well. This was a fake relationship. And he didn’t do real ones. Bad-boy black sheep rarely did.
Vic had bent down to fuss with her skirt, and he now realized she was unhooking her stockings from unseen garters. He felt a blush rise on his neck—a very unusual occurrence for him, but then this was a very unusual circumstance. He looked away.
“Come on, now,” she teased behind him. “We had a deal! I assume you’re not going in in those Italian loafers.”
Right.
