(Isobel POV)
"Well, that was quite a kiss."
I froze. The voice was smooth, slightly amused, and definitely not Julien's.
When I turned, he stood at the bottom of the steps, half in shadow, half washed by the streetlamp. The same man from the gallery—the one who'd bought my painting—dressed in black again, casual but precise, the kind of presence that seemed to fill the space without effort.
My stomach twisted. "Excuse me?"
He nodded toward the door Julien had just slipped through. "You were practically devouring each other. Should I applaud or give you two privacy?"
Heat rushed to my cheeks. "We weren't—" I folded my arms. "That's not your business."
He smiled, faint and amused. "You're right. It's not. But you made it hard to look away."
"Do you always stand around watching people like a creep?"
"Only when it's you."
I blinked. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"That I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since last night."
My pulse skipped. I laughed because it was easier than reacting. "Wow. That's a bold line. Do you practice those in front of the mirror?"
He took a slow step toward me. "You think I'm joking?"
"I think you're being weird." I stepped back automatically.
Another step. "Weird, maybe. Honest, definitely."
The back of my heel hit the door. My fingers brushed the handle but didn't turn it. He was close now—too close. I could smell his cologne, warm and expensive, threaded with the faintest trace of paint thinner.
I looked up, forcing my voice even. "You should leave."
He tilted his head. "Say please."
"Please," I said, but it came out as a challenge rather than a request.
He laughed quietly, his breath grazing my cheek. "You're not very convincing."
My chest rose and fell faster than it should have. "You're blocking the door."
"Maybe I like it here."
"You don't even know me."
"I know enough. You paint like you're trying to say something you're afraid to say out loud."
I swallowed. "You got all that from one painting?"
He leaned closer. "From the way you looked at me when I bought it."
Words stumbled in my head; nothing sharp came out.
Then I found my voice. "You're insane."
"Probably." His eyes dipped to my mouth, then back up. "But I'm not wrong."
"You really shouldn't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because you sound like a stalker."
That made him grin, slow and deliberate. "Then I should at least tell you my name before you report me."
I raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, that would help."
"Étienne," he said smoothly. "Étienne Moreau."
It rolled off his tongue as if he'd said it a hundred times. It fit him. "Are you french?" I asked.
"Something like that."
I didn't believe him, but I let it go. "Well, Étienne, this has been… weird. I should go inside."
He didn't move. "You really going to pretend you didn't feel that?"
"Feel what?"
His smile softened. "Whatever this is."
I shook my head. "You're unbelievable."
"Maybe." He reached out, fingers brushing a loose strand of my hair. I froze. "But I'm not wrong."
My breath hitched. The air between us felt thick, charged, almost unbearable. For a second I thought he might kiss me. I wanted to step away, but my back was already against the door.
"Étienne," I managed. "Don't."
"Then stop looking at me like that."
"I'm not—"
"Isobel?"
Julien's voice cut through the moment—loud, close.
We both turned. He stood at the corner of the street, still holding his jacket like he'd rushed back.
"Everything okay?"
Étienne's jaw tightened. "She's fine," he called.
Julien frowned. "I wasn't talking to you."
I moved forward quickly. "Julien, it's fine. We were just—"
"Talking," Étienne finished, tone sharp. "If that's what you call it."
Julien's eyes narrowed. "Do I know you?"
"No," Étienne said. "But you will if you keep interrupting."
I sighed. "Both of you, please—"
Julien stepped closer. "You should leave."
Étienne shifted, body angled like he was ready for a fight. "You going to make me?"
"Try me."
"Stop it!" I pushed between them, hands out. "This is ridiculous."
Julien's arm brushed mine as he tried to pull me behind him. "He shouldn't be here."
"I told you I'm fine," I said, though my voice trembled.
Étienne's expression softened when he looked at me again. "You heard her," he said to Julien, almost calmly. "She's fine."
He began to turn, then hesitated. His hand lifted and rested briefly against my cheek, and then he did the most unexpected thing.
He pulled me into him and said, "Next time, don't let him kiss you first." Before I could react, he leaned in and kissed me.
It wasn't gentle. It was hungry, impatient—the kind of kiss that left you dizzy and uncertain of what had just happened. His hand slid to the back of my neck, steadying me as if he knew I might fall.
The world tilted and narrowed to the press of him—his mouth harsh and sure—and the confusing pull of something I didn't want to name.
My fingers clenched at the front of his shirt without meaning to. His heartbeat thudded beneath my palm, alive and urgent, and for one strange second it felt painfully familiar, like a distant echo I couldn't place.
I pulled back first, breathing hard, chest tight. The kiss with Julien hadn't set my heart racing like that. God—he felt like Alexander. I stepped away, stumbling slightly. My lips burned and my pulse refused to calm.
Julien's face flushed. "What the hell was that?"