Stefan stared at him again. “So now I’m not allowed to joke? YouknowI adore her.”
Dieter huffed. “Yeah, I know.” Then he sighed. “You know what? I’ve just remembered there’s somewhere I do have to be after all. I have a doctor’s appointment. So I’ll leave you both to your vastly more interesting day.” He stood. “I hope to see you again while you’re in Berlin, Kieran.”
I smiled. “I hope so too.” I couldn’t help liking him.
Dieter flashed Stefan a look. “Who knows? I may see you both at the street fair on Saturday.” Then he walked off, carrying Gertrude.
I frowned. “There’s a street fair?”
Stefan didn’t answer right away, but gazed at me until I felt my cheeks burn.
“I meant what I said. Let me show you Berlin,” he said at last, his voice low.
There were, presumably, several sensible reasons to say no. None of them presented themselves.
“Show me?”
Stefan nodded. “Not just the parts in guidebooks.” He paused. “You’ve never been here before. It helps to have someone who knows where they’re going.”
I felt a flicker of something just beneath the surface. The same feeling I’d experienced on the train.
“You don’t have to—” I began.
“I know,” Stefan said.
I glanced at my coffee, buying myself a second or two.
It would be easy to say no.
Sensibly, that was probably what I should do. I didn’t know this man.
I didn’t know what this was.
But God, I wanted to.
“I’d like that,” I said, the words tumbling out in a hurry before I could reconsider them.
Apparently, we were past the point of sensible decisions.
Stefan’s smile didn’t widen, but something in his expression settled. “Good.”
And just like that?
It was decided.
I had a guide. I just wasn’t sure what, exactly, he intended to show me.
I also had the unsettling feeling that this had very little to do with sightseeing.
Chapter Eight
Stefan
I matchedmy pace to Kieran’s as we walked along Kleiststraße, adjusting without thinking, letting the rhythm settle into something natural. Beside me, Kieran was quieter than he’d been at the café. He didn’t seem withdrawn, however.
He’s thinking.
I recognised the signs—the slight furrow in his brow, the way his gaze drifted ahead rather than around us, as if he were working something through internally before committing to it aloud.