wel . Observing the steady boats gliding down the Seine and the proud Eiffel Tower stretched above the Champ de Mars, I know this now. A noise on the

stairwel startles me—a screech, fol owed by pounding feet. Someone is running up the stairs. And I’m alone.

Relax, Anna. I’m sure it’s just a tourist.

A running tourist?

I prepare for the onslaught, and it doesn’t take long. A man bursts onto the viewing platform. He’s wearing teeny tiny running shorts and athletic

sneakers. Did he just climb those stairs for fun? He doesn’t acknowledge me, just stretches, jogs in place for thirty seconds, and then bursts back down the stairs.

That was weird.

I’m settling back down when I hear another yel . I bolt up. Why would the running man be screaming? There’s someone else there, terrified by the runner,

afraid of fal ing. I listen for more footsteps but don’t hear anything. Whoever it is has stopped. I think about St. Clair, about how frightened he is of heights.

This person may be trapped. With growing dread, I realize perhaps someone did fal .

I peek down the stairs. “Hel o? Bonsoir? Ça va? ” No response. I climb down a few spirals, wondering why it’s me doing this, not the guard. “Is someone there? Do you need help?”

There’s a strange shifting, and I continue down cautiously. “Hel o?” They must not speak English. I hear them panting. They’re just below me, just around this corner—

I scream. He screams.

Chapter forty-six

What the hel are you doing here? jeez, St. Clair! You scared the crap out of me.”

He’s crouched down, gripping the stairs, and looking more freaked out than I’ve ever seen him before. “Then why did you come down?” he snaps.

“I was trying to help. I heard a scream. I thought maybe someone was hurt.”

His pale skin is beet red. “No. I’m not hurt.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask again, but he’s silent. “At least let me help you.”

He stands, and his legs wobble like a baby goat. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You are clearly not fine. Give me your hand.”

St. Clair resists, but I grab it and start herding him down. “Wait.” He glances up and swal ows. “I want to see the top.”

I give him a look that I hope is incredulous. “Sure you do.”

“No,” he says with a new determination. “I want to see the top.”

“Fine, go.” I release his hand.

He just stands there. I take his hand again. “Oh, come on.” Our climb is painful and slow. I’m thankful no one is behind us. We don’t speak, but his grip is crushing my fingers. “Almost there.You’re doing good, so good.”

“Piss. Off.”

I should push him back down.

At last we reach the top. I let go of his hand, and he col apses to the ground. I give him a few minutes. “You okay?”

“Yes,” he says miserably.

And I’m not sure what to do. I’m stuck on a tiny roof in the center of Paris with my best friend, who is scared of heights and also apparently angry with me. And I have no idea why he’s even here in the first place. I take a seat, lock my eyes on the riverboats, and ask a third time. “What are you doing

here?”

He takes a deep breath. “I came for you.”

“And how on EARTH did you know I was up here?”

“I saw you.” He pauses. “I came to make another wish, and I was standing on Point Zéro when I saw you enter the tower. I cal ed your name, and you

looked around, but you didn’t see me.”

“So you decided to just . . . come up?” I’m doubtful, despite the evidence in front of me. It must have taken superhuman strength for him to make it past the first flight of stairs alone.

“I had to. I couldn’t wait for you to come down, I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to see you now. I have to know—”

He breaks off, and my pulse races. What what what?

“Why did you lie to me?”

The question startles me. Not what I was expecting. Nor hoping. He’s stil on the ground, but he stares up at me. His brown eyes are huge and

heartbroken. I’m confused. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what—”

“November. At the crêperie. I asked you if we’d talked about anything strange that night I was drunk in your room. If I had said anything about our relationship, or my relationship with El ie. And you said no.”

Oh my God. “How did you know?”

“Josh told me.”

“When?”

“November.”

I’m stunned. “I . . . I ...” My throat is dry. “If you’d seen the look on your face that day. In the restaurant. How could I possibly tell you? With your mother—”

“But if you had, I wouldn’t have wasted all of these months. I thought you were turning me down. I thought you weren’t interested.”

“But you were drunk! You had a girlfriend! What was I supposed to do? God, St. Clair, I didn’t even know if you meant it.”

“Of course I meant it.” He stands, and his legs falter.

“Careful!”

Step. Step. Step. He toddles toward me, and I reach for his hand to guide him.We’re so close to the edge. He sits next to me and grips my hand

harder. “I meant it, Anna. I mean it.”

“I don’t under—”

He’s exasperated. “I’m saying I’m in love with you! I’ve been in love with you this whole bleeding year!”