WE DON’T LEAVE THE HOUSE FOR DAYS. IT’S LIKE WE’VE DISCOVERED A NEW language that we can’t get enough of. Parker once said he wanted to bend me over every piece of furniture in his home, and we get close.

He takes a break to deal with a business call, and I carry my laptop to the office. That is where I sit and write my scene that takes place in the Eiffel Tower.

Two hours later, Parker kisses my neck, interrupting me, and we put good use to that sliding ladder. Then, with our clothes all over the library, I hand Parker a stack of freshly printed pages. “I want you—I want you to read it,” I say.

“It’s done?”

“Almost,” I say. “I’m just finishing up the ending.”

I don’t tell him I’ve never let anyone read my unfinished work before. I think he can tell, by the way he gingerly takes the pages, like I’ve given him an unimaginable gift. Like this stack of paper is worth more than this block-long house.

“Thank you,” he says.

He reads it in bed, and I watch him write little notes in the margins, the same way I did when we watched the movie together. At first, I think he’s giving me critique, but then I sneak a look over his shoulder and see that his notes say, Love this, or Funny . The little words make something inside me sing.

The next morning, he wakes me up with a latte and the script, well worn and full of notes.

“You’re done already?”

He joins me in bed, the mattress dipping. He steals a sip of my latte, then hands it back. “I couldn’t stop. I stayed up reading it.” His eyes are mischievous. “You’ve kept me up for several nights, do you know that?”

Heat drops through my stomach.

“I loved it,” he says, before I can ask. “And I loved being able to see you, in the words. The way your mind works.” He kisses my forehead, and I think I might melt right through the covers.

“It means a lot that you read it,” I tell him, as I burrow myself in his side. “I’ll read some of your code, to make up for it, or your acquisition contract.”

He barks out a laugh. Then he sighs. “Speaking of that.”

“We have to go, don’t we?”

We both do. My script is due in just a few days. I need to polish it, then send it off to Sarah.

“We have a little bit of time, though,” he tells me. “Our flight is in the afternoon.” He puts my latte on the nightstand and I laugh as he lifts me out of bed and carries me to the shower.

I USED TO WONDER HOW FIRST-CLASS INTERNATIONAL FLIGHTS could justify being so expensive. The fact that the price was so much more than business class didn’t make sense.

Until now.

We have our own lounge. There’s a hotel room inside of it, waiting for us, which we make quick use of. There’s a restaurant with a menu without any prices. All of it is included with the price of our ticket. We have the tasting menu.

There are hundreds of seats on this flight, but there are only twelve in the first-class cabin. There’s so much space in each of our pods that we’re able to sit across from each other when we eat dinner, a table between us, and a seat, complete with a seat belt, on the other side. That begins our next tasting menu.

Airplane food is supposed to be disgusting, but this is as good as any nice restaurant. We have soup. A salad. Seafood. There’s a cheese plate in between courses. Nice wine is brought out and served in real wineglasses. Filet mignon. We’re given pajamas to change into and full duvets. I have one of the best sleeps of my life, Parker’s hand reaching for mine across the space between us.

AS MUCH AS I LOVED PARIS, I MISSED NEW YORK.

The skyline twinkles as we rush toward it in our Uber. The new doorman helps Parker with our luggage. In the elevator, I sit atop my suitcase, wondering what happens now. Seeming to read my thoughts, he says, “I have a few meetings, but can I make you dinner tonight?”

We kiss goodbye, and then I’m back in the apartment again. So much has changed in just a few days.

Sarah texts me. A studio head wants to meet me in person next week. She says it’s for an exciting opportunity.

Nerves swirl in my stomach. I’m not used to taking these meetings. But I find that I’m more excited than afraid.

The piece of art that I knocked down in my shock is still on the ground. I put it back on its hook. Then, slowly, I start to walk around the apartment. The renovations are done. Luke and his firm did a good job, I have to admit.

My Frankenstein’s monster plot is still on the floor. I don’t need it anymore. Slowly, one by one, I start peeling the notes off the floor.

I get an alert on my phone, reminding me that my flight home is in four days. I see if I can change it, just in case. I can’t.

It’s fine, I think. I have the meeting anyway. I’ve been gone too long already.

It’s raining outside, water slipping down the glass, storm clouds blocking the view, as I sink to the floor and begin to pack. It’s better to do it over a few days, I reason, to make sure I don’t forget anything.

Just like the city, almost every piece of clothing I fold seems to have a memory attached to it. The dress from the nightclub. The skirt and scratchy shirt I wore to dinner and karaoke with Taryn, Emily, and Gwen. The overalls I wore to volunteer.

I don’t want to go, I realize.

But this isn’t my home.

It never was. I was just house-sitting.

Parker cooks me all his favorite foods, at my request. I want to know what he likes. I mill around the kitchen, trying to be helpful, but instead, I get called distracting, which might be because I keep touching him. I can’t help it. Seeing his arms and back flex in a T-shirt, as he’s chopping vegetables, does strange things to me.

I set the table, adding candles, trying to make it nice, and help him serve the plates. He’s made us chicken Parmesan, spicy pasta, and grilled mushrooms.

“I thought you ate healthily,” I say, before groaning after my first bite.

“I do. But you asked for my favorite foods.” He looks up at me. “And stop making that sound. I’d hate to ruin the lovely table you set by bending you over it.”

Want curls through my bones, but I comply, eating all his food, marveling at how it’s even better than a restaurant.

“It’s so good,” I say. “I’m really going to miss your cooking.”

His fork goes still against his plate. Slowly, he looks up at me. “Why would you miss it?” he asks.

We stare at each other across the table. “My flight is in four days.”

“Cancel it.”

“I can’t.”

Parker drags his eyes back to his meal. For a few minutes, there’s just silence, us eating separately, and I feel a gap opening between us, until he says, so gently I barely hear him, “I thought you would stay.”

I put my cutlery down. “Where? That apartment’s not mine. I live in LA. My entire life is back in LA.” I say that as if I couldn’t write anywhere. I say that as if anyone but Penelope is keeping me in California. I shake my head. “You’re leaving too. Once the acquisition goes through, right? You’ll be in San Francisco.”

Parker frowns. Hurt flashes in his eyes for just a moment. “So that’s it?” he says. “It’s just . . . goodbye?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want it to be . . . but this was only ever meant to last the summer.”

We have completely different lives, different careers.

He doesn’t have time for a relationship. Especially now, when he’s about to become the CEO of Virion.

We don’t fight the rest of the night, but we don’t talk much either. There’s silence, instead of our typical talking.

And that’s even worse.