I am trying to decide between wine-colored ankle-strap pumps or my black flats. The pumps say, in a sultry voice, “Have we met? I am a goddess.” They’re very Rita Hayworth. The flats say, in a sweet voice, “Hands off. I am an innocent.” They’re Olivia Newton-John singing “Hopelessly Devoted to You” in Grease.
The question is, do I want Gabriel to see me as Mame or Sandy? Neither. You want him to see you as Laney. Just plain old Laney.
I sit on the floor, cross my legs, rest my elbows on my knees, close my eyes, and take several deep, cleansing breaths. I replay the Good Vibes positive affirmations meditation in my head.
Your worth is not measured by your appearance. You are worthwhile as a person, just the way you are. If you accept yourself, others will accept you just as you are.
I take two more deep breaths and open my eyes. My chakras are feeling more balanced already. I am relaxed and confident.
I let my hair down, wipe the lipstick from my lips, and slide my feet into my flats. At the last minute, I reach into my purse and pull out my necklace. It’s a silver chain with an oval pendant engraved with the words, “Faith, trust, and pixie dust” and a small glass vial filled with pink and silver glittery fairy dust.
* * *
Gabriel is sitting on a bench in the shade of a linden tree. He is wearing worn jeans and a slouchy roll-neck sweater. His black hair is hidden beneath a beanie, and he has a scarf tied around his neck. He looks the way I imagine Modigliani would look if he were living in modern-day Paris, cool and a little dangerous.
I suddenly feel like a loser for having no chill and worrying about my shoes. Gabriel has tons of chill. Gone is his conservative suit and crisp white shirt.
He glances my way, and my breath catches in my throat, my cheeks flame with heat. He makes me feel like a gawky teen, and I kinda dig it.
“Bonjour, ma fleur,” he says, standing.
He greets me the way Parisians greet each other: by pressing his cheek close to mine and kissing the air near my ear. His stubbly cheek grazes mine, and my heart flips over in my chest. I catch a whiff of his spicy cologne and imagine a moonless night in an exotic land, sultry breezes tinged with the scent of nutmeg, swaying palm trees, shadows that promise intrigue. His cologne matches his aura, dark, thrilling, mysterious, and romantic, with a hint of danger.
He wraps his long, tanned fingers around my hand and leads me back to the bench. We sit facing each other, close enough for me to notice his long, thick eyelashes and the flecks of silver shimmering in his blue eyes.
“How was your first day at the gallery?”
“It was good, except . . .”
“Except?”
I shrug. “I made it to the gallery with a minute to spare, but Monsieur Alexandre was still pissed. He’s a stickler about tardiness. and punctuality just isn’t in my bag.”
He chuckles low in his throat. “Are you always so candid?”
“Guilty.”
“So you were late?”
I hold up my hand and make a pinching gesture to indicate just a little.
“That reminds me,” he says, reaching into the pocket of his leather jacket, which he has tossed over the back of the bench. “I brought you a gift.”
“Get out!” My cheeks are hot enough to boil coffee. “I should have brought you a gift or at least a new shirt. I am sorry about that.”
“It was nothing,” he says, handing me a box wrapped in colorful paper. “Now, open your gift, s’il vous plait.”
I take the box and look at the shiny paper covering it. “Did you wrap this in comic book pages?”
“Guilty.”
I can’t even right now. A handsome Frenchman who reads comics and is into me? It seems obvious. Fate has stopped being a Mean Girl. She likes me again. She really likes me.
I carefully remove the comic page from the box and smooth it out on my lap. There’s half of a superhero in red and gold and a lot of French words in small comic script.
“Who is this? Iron Man?”
“Non,” he shakes his head. “It is Exodus, also known as Bennet du Paris. Do you know his origin story?”
I shake my head.
“He was born in the twelfth century and always felt as if he had a deep hidden power. When he grew up, he became a crusader and discovered his mutant abilities. He was stripped of his powers and sealed in a crypt in the Swiss Alps. Years later, Magneto frees him. Exodus became one of Charles Xavier’s most powerful mutants.” He stops talking and gives me this charming, slightly self-conscious smile that literally makes my heart ache with its sweetness. “Anyway, I do not read the comics anymore. I had a pile of them I was going to give to my cousin and thought they would make good wrapping paper.”
He ripped up one of his favorite comics to wrap a gift. A gift for me.
“I love vintage comics,” I say, folding the wrapping paper into a neat square and slipping it into my purse. “Some of the artwork is next level, like Brian Bolland’s iconic Joker image. So Warhol-inspired.”
He stares at me so intensely I think I might melt away, like chocolate in a fondue pot. My sensei would call it a look into the soul, an intermingling of spirits. I hope he likes what he sees because I would like our spirits to intermingle some more.
I break eye contact, shifting my focus to the box in my hands. I lift the lid and find a pink Swatch watch with a band that looks like those stretchable candy bracelets I used to wear when I was a kid.
“I love it!” I take it out of the box and slip it onto my wrist. “It’s the coolest gift anyone has ever given me.”
“You really like it?”
“I love it.” I can’t help myself. I throw my arms around him and give him a big squeeze. “Thank you, Gabriel.”
I pull away quickly, before it gets awkward. The hug was organic and so me. I just went with what I felt. I doubt the sophisticated, cool French girls I see strolling around the Marais give spontaneous hugs, but then, I doubt they’ve ever been given a candy bracelet watch.
“Now, you don’t need to worry about pissing off the Stickler.”
I don’t bother telling him that my trusty Minnie Mouse watch has been strapped to my wrist for several years now, and it’s never kept me from being late. I am perpetually time challenged.
“Thank you, Gabriel.”
I remember I don’t even know his last name. In fact, I don’t know anything about him. My cheeks flush with heat, only this time it’s caused by shame, not embarrassment.
“What is it, ma fleur?” He reaches out and brushes a hair from my cheek. “The eyes are the windows to the soul, and your windows just darkened with shadows.”
“I’m ashamed.”
“Ashamed? What do you have to be ashamed about?”
“I ruin your shirt and then accept a gift from you before I know anything about you.”
“What do you want to know?” He holds out his hands. “I am an open book for you to read.”
“Well, why don’t we start with your name?”
He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. Now it is my turn to watch the windows of his soul darken with shadows. Why doesn’t he want to tell me his name? What could he possibly have to hide?
Chapter 16
Laney’s Life Playlist
“Anything Could Happen” by Ellie Goulding
“First Date” by Blink-182
“I don’t want there to be dishonesty between us, ever,” he says, reaching for my hand and wrapping his warm fingers around mine. “My name is Gabriel Galliard.”
My palms begin to sweat.
“Gabriel Galliard? As in Gallery Galliard de Cadré?”
He nods his head, and I pull my hand away.
Fate is back to being a wicked mean girl. I should have known our newly fostered friendship was as sketchy as a Da Vinci drawing.
“My family owns the gallery. The Stickler is my brother.”
“Are you kidding me?” I stand up. “We can’t do this.”
“Do what, e
xactly?” He grabs my hand again and pulls me back onto the bench. “Meet in the park? Sit on a bench? Get to know each other? What can’t we do, Laney?”
It’s the first time he has used my name, and it sends a shiver of pleasure over my skin. I want him to hold my hand and say my name until the leaves fall off the linden trees and snow swirls around the statue.
“You’re Monsieur Alexandre’s brother? What are the odds? That’s, like, epic, epic bad luck. He already hates me.”
He rubs his thumb over my knuckles. “Who could possibly hate you, ma fleur?”
“Stop calling me your flower.”
“Why?”
“It’s unethical.”
He laughs. “How is it unethical?”
“I am an intern in your family’s gallery.”
“Exactement!” He lets go of my hand and sits back, crossing his legs at the ankles. “You’re an intern in an art gallery, not a recruit for some top-secret military organization.”
“Still, don’t you think we should get Monsieur Alexandre’s permission first?”
Gabriel throws back his head and chuckles.
“I am not in the habit of seeking my brother’s approval before conducting a love affair.”
“Love affair?” My heart is thudding against my ribs so hard I am sure he can hear the thump-thump. “Is that what this is, a love affair?”
“It might be. We will have to wait and see, won’t we?” He winks and my cheeks flush with heat. “Now, shall we get something to eat?”
“Eat?”
“Oui.” He stands, grabs his leather coat, and holds out his hand, pulling me to my feet. “I promised you lunch, did I not? I know a place that makes superb pita sandwiches.”
“I crave pitas sandwiches. They’re, like, the alpha and the omega of sandwiches.”
He laughs.
“Bon.” He holds my hand, and we walk toward the wrought-iron gate leading out of the park. “It is not too far.”
We leave the park and walk side by side on the narrow sidewalk, passing an old-fashioned tabac shop with jars of pungent tobacco, a luxury perfumerie called Diptyque, and a hat shop selling outrageous fascinators.
Gabriel sees me looking in the window and stops walking. “Do you like des chapeaux?”
“Do I? Did Degas like little dancers? I love hats!”
“Would you like to try one on?”
Is he kidding? Of course I would like to try on a quirky, artistic hat, but it probably costs more than my Mini Cooper.
I shake my head.
“Why not?”
“I am kinda klutzy. I would probably rip the delicate netting or ruffle the feathers.” I smile at his reflection in the window. “Besides, where would I wear a fascinator? I don’t exactly move in the Ascot circle.”
I suddenly remember Gabriel is a Galliard. He probably moves in the Ascot circle.
“You could wear it while you paint,” he says, giving my hand a little squeeze. “It could be your signature piece.”
“Like Vigée Le Brun and her turban? Picasso and his onesie?”
“Exactement.”
I laugh. “Such eccentricities are only allowed after one has become a genius.”
“Ah, I was unaware of the rule for eccentrics,” he says, smiling. “Nevertheless, if you had to choose a hat to wear as your eccentricity, which of these would you choose?”
I look at the hats. One catches my attention, a small green felt cap with a spray of peacock feathers held in place by a diamond-encrusted hat pin.
“That one,” I say, pointing to the peacock cap.
“The one with the feathers?”
I nod my head.
“Why that one?”
“The colors of the feathers remind me of Gustave Klimt’s painting Portrait of Emilie Flöge.” I look at Gabriel and realize his gaze is fixed on my face. My breath catches in my throat. “Have you seen Emilie Flöge?”
Gabriel shakes his head.
“Emilie Flöge was a member of the Viennese bohemian society and Gustave Klimt’s . . .” I let my words trail off because I don’t think I can say the word lover while looking into Gabriel’s eyes. “. . . lifelong partner. In fact, he spoke her name with his dying breath.”
“Romantique.”
“Oui.”
Gabriel is still holding my hand. He begins making circles on my palm with his thumb—slow, absentminded circles, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be standing on a street in Paris, holding hands with a strange girl, and talking to her about hats. I wonder if seducing gallery interns is his thing. I hope not. My heart is clutching onto the slender hope that this is one of those rare, serendipitous encounters, the kind that seems fated by the stars and can’t be explained, just felt.
“Tell me more,” he says, his voice low. “I like to hear you speak.”
I swallow hard. Most people tell me to be quiet, chill, take it down a few notches.
“In the portrait, Emilie is wearing a cobalt-blue gown patterned with shapes that look like the eye of the peacock feather. Klimt painted her against a green background.” I take a deep breath to calm my erratic pulse. “It’s ethereal, yet powerful, truly breathtaking.”
“You’re breathtaking,” he whispers, staring deep into my eyes. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Delaney Lavender Brooks. You’re so . . . so . . .”
“Quirky?” I laugh. “Random?”
“Vivant.”
“Alive?”
He nods his head. “You are like the most wonderful painting, full of color and movement, drawing the viewer in with your singular beauty.”
Someone stick me with a hat pin because I am trapped in an unbelievable dream, a dream where a thrilling, charming, gorgeous man tells me he likes my quirky personality and thinks I am beautiful. Me. Laney. Beautiful? I’ve been called cute and adorkable, but never beautiful.
I chuckle. “You say that now because you hardly know me. You haven’t seen the ridiculous riot of colors I can be. I am completely bonkers.”
What is wrong with me? Why did I just tell him I am crazy? Am I trying to talk him out of liking me? Fanny would never respond to a compliment in such a self-depreciating way. Think Fanny! Think Fanny! What would Fanny say?
Yeah, I got nothing.
Gabriel smiles one of those sad, lips-turned down smiles, and I realize I have ruined the moment. Before I opened my stupid mouth, we were surrounded by a warm, intimate blanket, sheltered in our own little world, oblivious to the people bustling around us.
“I know what it is to have people think you are”—he tilts his head and looks at me through his thick, dark eyelashes—“what was the word you used? Bonkers?”
I nod.
“My family thinks I am bonkers.”
“Get out.”
“I am serious.”
I stare at him, trying to find the chink in his perfectly beautiful armor, a wonky eye, a tic, something.
“Why would they think you are bonkers? You’re perfect.”
He chuckles, but it is one of those slightly bitter, wounded laughs that hint at a deeper pain. “À chaque troupeau sa brebis galeuse.”
There is a black sheep in every flock.
“Come,” he says, pulling me along. “Sandwiches, and then I must get back to work.”
“You work?”
He chuckles. “Mais bien sûr.”
I wonder what kind of job would allow him to hang around the gallery and take long lunches. “Are you an artist?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On who you ask.” His words come out as a growl. “My family doesn’t think I am an artist.”
“I feel you. My family doesn’t appreciate my art, either. What kind of artist are you? What’s your medium?”
“I am a photojournalist.”
“Are you kidding me? That’s awesome.”
He glances over at me, and I can read the skepticism written all over his handsome face, feel the negative shi
ft in his aura. “You really think so?”
“Absolutely!”
“My parents say photojournalism, it is not art.”
“Are you kidding me? What about Margaret Bourke-White? Her images are pure art, evocative stories painted with light and shadow.” I feel his aura shifting again, the dark, cloudy colors moving away to reveal his natural sunny state. “Have you always wanted to be a photojournalist?”
“Non,” he says, his tone less gruff. “I studied law at Katholieke Universiteit Leuven in Belgium. In my junior year, I began working as a stringer for a Belgian newspaper, covering local and national news. After graduation, I was hired by Reuters to cover international stories.”
“That sounds exciting.”
He shrugs. “It was at first, but taking photographs of soldiers blown apart by IEDs took a lot out of me. Reuters had me stationed in the Middle East.”
“What an admirable way to apply your talent.”
He slants a look at me. “Admirable?”
I nod my head. “You are the man on the ground, taking the pictures that provoke the conscience and persuade people to take action.”
“Merci.”
“De rien.”
He holds my hand, and we walk together in silence. I feel this strong simpatico with Gabriel. We have a lot more in common than I realized. We are both black sheep, going against the flock. I express my rebellion through my outlandish wardrobe, music, and art. Gabriel appears as cultured and sophisticated as his family, but his leather jacket and long hair suggest he has a definite rakish, rebellious side.
We arrive at L’As du Fallafel, a small green storefront at the start of the pedestrian-only portion of rue des Rosiers, and take our places in the long queue of students and hip, young locals. The scent of grilled meat and exotic spices hangs in the air like a delicious cloud.
Gabriel orders for both of us. A minute later, we are each handed a large sandwich wrapped in paper and a plastic cup of minty lemonade. We walk to a nearby square—really more of a triangle formed by the convergence of three pedestrian streets—and lean against a building covered in the most beautiful seafoam-green tiles.
Owning It Page 11
