CALHOUN’S POV.
Steven sprawled across the living room couch like he owned the place, one ankle resting over the opposite knee, fingers loosely wrapped around a glass of whiskey he had poured without asking. The French windows behind him were open, letting in the muted Paris evening air, but I barely noticed it.
“I still can’t believe this,” he said, shaking his head with a laugh. “You actually convinced me to come all the way to France so you could spy on your little obsession.”
I didn’t look at him immediately. I was standing near the window, hands in my pockets, watching the city lights begin to glow.
“First of all,” I said calmly, “I didn’t convince you. You invited yourself.”
He grinned. “Please. You mentioned her name twice and booked a private jet. That’s a cry for help.”
“Seco
