A Second Chance at Paris

by Cole McCade

  “So you’re job-hunting here? Smart move. It’s what your father would have done.” Dr. Rutherford smiled indulgently. “But then your father wouldn’t have needed to. People lined up begging him to work for them.”

  Celeste fought not to recoil, or let her hurt show. She knew he’d meant it as a compliment to her father, but what he’d really said was…she didn’t measure up. To him she was still a little girl living in her father’s shadow, and she’d never be good enough. The same crap she’d heard day in, day out until she’d started using her mother’s maiden name. Then they’d traded Daddy’s little girl for just little girl.

  Little girl, her ass. She was a damned good astrophysicist, and she would find a job, come hell or high water.

  She pulled up her best professional smile. “He’d be flattered to know you remember him so kindly,” she said. “I’ll be sure to let him know.” Over Rutherford’s shoulder, she glimpsed a tall, familiar shape skulking around the door. Ion. She hesitated only a moment before turning her smile back on Rutherford. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to see someone.”

  She left him staring after her as she crossed the room, slipped out the door, and pulled Ion into a hug. “Ion,” she murmured against his shoulder, breathing him in.

  After a moment his arms wrapped around her, holding her close. “Hello to you too,” he rumbled against her ear; she sighed. This was just what she needed. “Thought I’d end up groveling before you’d talk to me again.”

  “You can grovel in a minute.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “The usual. Someone else had to remind me I don’t measure up to the big boys.” She snorted. “Pointing out my father never would have had to beg and scrape for jobs.”

  “Your father worked in a very different economy, in a very different world.” Ion’s hands settled on her hips. “You’re good enough. You know that.”

  “I do.” But she flushed with pleasure to hear him say it, nonetheless. “But saying so lets you off the hook for groveling.”

  “Too bad. I’d planned to spend the rest of the afternoon making it up to you.”

  “Yeah?” Excitement sparked inside her. “What’s on the agenda?”

  “Depends. You done here?”

  “Knocked it out of the park. Obligatory schmoozing and mingling taken care of, and I’m so ready to be done.”

  “Then come on.” He tugged her toward the door. “We’ll stop by your hotel so you can change into more comfortable shoes.”

  Her brows knit. “Where are you taking me?”

  “I told you I’d show you my Paris.” He grinned, white teeth flashing against dusky skin. “You’ll just have to wait and see what Day One is all about.”

  Day One turned out to be a trip to the Etienne Marcel area, and Le Marias. Tall buildings lined the streets, apartments overlooking a dizzying array of kitschy shops, restaurants, vendor stands—a riot of activity and color, a civilized evolution of the Bohemian revolution. People strolled everywhere, shopping bags in hand, dozens on roller blades; Ion had to pull her aside when she stopped and stared at the streams rolling past.

  He showed her his favorite shops, from a glassblower that let customers watch while she created blown glass figurines fine as iridescent soap bubbles, to a restaurant festooned with overgrown grasses, bushes, and woody, blooming vines. Over cheese crepes, he told her stories of growing up around the world—of traveling minstrels in Amsterdam, surfing in Baja, angry territorial koalas in the Australian outback, and the glowing, bioluminescent plankton lighting up the shores of Vaadhoo Island in the Maldives.

  “You’d love it,” he said, pausing to sip from his glass; his fingers left streaks in the condensation. “It’s like a universe underwater. All these tiny blue stars dancing against the waves. I like to think it’s where shooting stars go when they fall.” He smiled, eyes darkening with memory. “Everyone’s wishes swimming together, waiting to be granted.”

  I wish I may, I wish I might… “I’d love to see it one day.”

  “One day, maybe you will.”

  His lingering look stole her breath. She had to look away, tucking her hair behind her ear. She couldn’t answer that unspoken question in his eyes, in his voice.

  She’d gotten her wish, but could never forget she wasn’t allowed to keep it.

  For dessert, he took her to a cupcake shop filled with exquisite gourmet creations. She forgave him for laughing—and for that morning—while she agonized over picking just one, only to end up with half a dozen. She was no better at the chocolatier, and she shoved him playfully before holding a white chocolate truffle to his lips.

  “Here. If I’m going to pig out, so are you.”

  He snickered, nipped the morsel from her fingers, then took her hand and led her deeper into his city.

  He showed her gardens of tulips, colored heads nodding in the spring breeze, a confetti rainbow—and let her snuggle close as they rode the bus through narrow streets filled with historic architecture. They spent hours walking the Canal de l’Ourcq, which flowed from the city outskirts into a mossy, overhung forest. He held her hand in the dappled shadows of the trees while they walked shoulder to shoulder. Leaves crunched under their feet as they traded stories from university. Everything that had happened after she’d left him and high school behind—including the trouble he’d gotten into trying to get his best friend to relax. She’d thought he’d have been the serious one in college, but by the time he told her about getting arrested for disorderly conduct with a tuba on his head, she was laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe.

  And her breath died for a different reason when he stopped under the shade of a massive oak, cradled her face in his palms, and kissed her with a warm, slow fire that sank deep into her bones.

  Celeste was exhausted by the time they took the bus back to his apartment. They peered at the sky through the bus window and picked out constellations until she dozed off against him, as the city lights streamed by and the bus rumbled and swayed—while he sighed and pressed his lips into her hair.

  And when he carried her up to his bed, she held fast to him as he laid her against the sheets and gave her a dozen reasons to wish this would never end.

  The next day he took her on a walking tour of Paris’s bridges, and for dinner led her to the Châtelet area and Jip’s Café, an Afro-Cuban bar with authentic African food and salsa dancing under low golden lights. The intimate environment left her feeling right at home—even when she almost stepped on his feet.

  Each afternoon he showed her a side of Paris outside the glossy brochures, the romanticized stories, the fantasy portrayed in big-screen movies. The Paris he showed her blossomed with the warmth of home: from open-air corner markets to street fairs to tiny cafés, tucked into narrow side streets where swaying laundry criss-crossed overhead on clotheslines that zig-zagged up the sides of ancient buildings. And when they sat on the edge of the Fontaine Louvois and shared jerk chicken sandwiches after a strenuous hike through a dozen parks, he tossed a coin into the fountain. As it splashed into the water, she closed her eyes and made another wish.

  Only this time, she knew it wouldn’t come true.

  As they curled together Friday night with his arms around her and the scent of night drifting through the balcony door, Ion pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

  “Barely a week,” he murmured, “but I feel like I’ve always known you.”

  But you have. It just took you this long to finally see me.

  She closed her eyes against the bright lance of pain spearing through her chest. “Don’t. Please don’t say that.”

  “I know. It’s crazy.” His voice roughened, then steadied. His fingers traced her arm, his hold comforting for all that each word threatened to break her. “It’s illogical and impractical and pretty damned terrifying.”

  “You got one part right, at least,” she whispered, and curled her fingers against his.

  “You’re upset.”

  “No—no, I’m fine. Really.” Sh
e swallowed back the wetness in her throat and tilted her head back to look at him—midnight shadows painting him in dark strokes—with the best smile she could manage. “You’re sweet, Ion.”

  “Translation: I’m making you uncomfortable.” With a sad smile, he coiled her hair around his fingertip. “Would you feel better if I say it’s the highly exaggerated ramblings of a melodramatic writer?”

  “Sure,” she said, and told herself she wouldn’t cry. “Yeah. We can say that.”

  But it wouldn’t make it true.

  * * *

  Saturday, they slept in. Or, more accurately, Celeste slept in—and woke to the gunfire rattle of Ion’s typing. Sometimes, when she’d wake in the middle of the night to see his lean shape bent over the cool white glow of the screen, the bed still warm where he’d been, she wondered how he didn’t break his keyboard.

  But the sheets were cool enough now to tell her he’d been up for hours. She’d never understand how he survived on so little sleep. With a yawn, she stretched onto her back, then smiled when he looked up.

  “Morning,” she murmured drowsily; he chuckled.

  “Wondered if you’d bother getting up today.”

  “Someone kept me up all night.” She sat up, hugging the sheets to her chest, and brushed her tangled hair back. “Did we have plans today?”

  “Tonight.” Ion slid from the chair and strode toward the bed, languid and graceful. The morning light flowed over the tight sculpture of his bare chest, gilding him in amber edges and highlighting the hard ridges of his iliac crest, peeking above low-slung drawstring sleep pants. Those pants slipped dangerously downward as he braced both hands and one knee on the bed, hovering over her to steal a brief kiss. “Today, I need to write. The deadline looms, whip in hand.”

  She laughed. He always had to put everything so dramatically. “Which means you need me out of your hair so you can work your magical writer word-tricks.”

  With an amused rumble he nosed against her jaw, then kissed her throat. “I might not have said it that way…” He reached for the sheet, tugging at it, but she held fast.

  “Because you try to sugarcoat things.” She swatted his hand away and drew her knees up with a grin. “It’s okay. I can entertain myself. I’m a big girl.”

  “So I’ve noticed.” He snagged his wallet from the nightstand. “But I had another idea.”

  He flipped the wallet open and extracted a credit card. Platinum. Christ, that bestseller list must not be fooling around. When he offered the card between two fingers, she leaned away, eyeing it.

  “What’s that for?”

  “To buy a dress for tonight.”

  She frowned. “…do I want to know what tonight is?”

  “Your last night here. I’d like to take you somewhere special to make up for being an ass yesterday.” The card didn’t move, waiting for her to take it. “Dress code’s mandatory. One step below black tie.”

  “I can’t spend your money, Ion.”

  “I’m not spending it on much else. Besides, you’re always worrying about money. Must be a consultant thing.” He traced a finger down her cheek, then tipped her chin up. “Stop worrying for once. Buy something as beautiful as you.”

  “Flatterer.” Groaning, she reluctantly took the card. Guilt bit at her. “You do realize I’m not Julia Roberts?”

  “Not what I’m paying you for.” He stole another kiss, lips tracing hers before he withdrew, leaving her mouth tingling. With a quick salute, he sauntered back to his desk. “Might want to try the Montaigne Market area on Avenue Montaigne. The shops usually have English-speaking staff. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “Okay. But only if you do one thing.”

  “What’s that?” he asked as he settled into his chair.

  “Pick me up here, and let me have free run of your apartment this afternoon. Just for two hours, and I’ll need a ladder. I’ll get dressed here.”

  He cocked his head. “Do I have to get out?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  She grinned. “Absolutely.”

  “All right.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “But I’m watching you, Miss London.”

  “And I can tell what you’re thinking when you are.” She rose, the sheet trailing as she padded across the floor to retrieve her clothing. It always ended up flung everywhere, making each morning a scavenger hunt.

  As she passed the desk on safari for her other shoe, he snagged the sheet and tugged it. “Since I’m being so obvious…”

  “Sorry, Casanova.” She danced out of reach. “My slave driver boss needs me to go buy something.”

  He slumped against his chair. “I just shot myself in the foot, didn’t I?”

  “You know it.” There was her shoe, under the coffee table. She added it to the pile in her arms, kissed his cheek, then skittered away to shimmy into her clothing. His gaze stroked over her with a palpable touch the entire time, lingering on her body in a way that left her flushed. But she zipped her jeans and slung her bag over her shoulder, then headed for the door. One hand on the knob, she blew him a kiss. “I’ll see you at five.”

  “Count on it,” he said.

  She ducked into the hall; the door closed behind her. Her smile faded the moment the latch clicked. She leaned against the wall, looking down at the credit card, tracing the embossed print of his name below the logo. A dress. A dress he’d pay for. And the worst part was…he was buying it for a woman who wasn’t real. Her eyes closed. She should go back in there and tell him, before she spent his money.

  But she was selfish. She was greedy. And she wanted one more night with him, before it all ended. Maybe if she left the tags on the dress, she could return it in the morning.

  No. She’d pay for it herself. She had enough in her savings, and she’d find a way to make it work—whether she returned the dress or not. She was hoping for a few callbacks soon, anyway. Yesterday had been the last day of the conference. She’d made some good connections, even gotten a few requests for her resume. Soon she wouldn’t have to stress about nickel-and-diming a nice dress. Someone would call her for an interview, she thought as she headed down to find a cab. They would. Then, her only problem?

  Being the asshole who’d lied to Ion.

  * * *

  Ion buttoned his waistcoat over a crisp white shirt, fitted his cufflinks, then checked his watch. Four fifty-five. Just enough time to smooth his flyaway hair, tame it with a little gel, and check his pocket for the box he’d picked up earlier. He hadn’t meant to get ready so early, but with Celeste booting him out it was either get dressed now and wait, or use the bathroom in the lobby.

  An involuntary smile crept over his lips as he wondered just what she was plotting. He caught himself doing that far too often lately: thinking of her and smiling. He’d found himself distracted while writing, wondering what she would think of the story and how he’d integrated her knowledge and even her words. Some of the things she’d said when explaining her love of the stars were too perfect to pass up. And for the first time in a long time, he found himself nervous about someone reading one of his drafts.

  He wanted her to like it. He wanted to do her passion justice, yet there was something about her he couldn’t quite capture in words. Something ephemeral that kept him chasing her, though come this time tomorrow she’d be out of his reach.

  That ephemeral something lit her eyes when she knocked on his door. He answered to find her waiting with a garment bag hanging over her shoulder and a shopping bag dangling from her wrist. She smiled and kissed his cheek.

  “You clean up nice.” She brushed her fingers against his sleeve. “And here I thought the BoHo look was your default.”

  “I have my moments.” He plucked at the bags to steal a glimpse, but she swirled out of his reach and stepped back, shaking her finger with a grin. He snorted. “So you found everything, then.”

  “I did.” She produced his card with a flourish. “Promise I didn’t bankrupt
you. Scoot.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. We agreed. Five to seven, this is my domain.” She pushed the card into his hand, then shoved his chest playfully. “Go. Shoo. Promise I won’t set the place on fire.”

  “Fire extinguisher’s under the sink.”

  “Go.”

  Laughing, he let her push him out the door, only for it to close in his face. He shook his head and took the elevator to the first floor. Watching something mindless on the lobby TV was better than shuffling around outside his own door for hours.

  But as he settled on the plush couch in the lobby, he pulled his phone from his pocket and sent a quick text. You’re not doing anything with chemical explosives up there, are you?

  Not this time.

  He arched a brow. This time?

  Keep distracting me and you’ll find out what I can do with Styrofoam and gasoline.

  What does that do?

  Napalm, Ion. Backyard brew napalm.

  He laughed, the only sound in the silent lobby. The perils of getting involved with a mad scientist. I’ll be quiet.

  Good boy.

  While he had his phone out, he checked his credit card app just to see how much she’d spent. No new charges. He raised a brow, then smiled. Stubborn, prideful woman. He hoped she wasn’t putting herself into any hardship for one last night out.

  He shot Drake a text for a status update, then tucked his phone away and flicked on the TV. The building’s cable included multiple international channels, in every language imaginable; this area of the city tended to draw immigrants and foreign nationals, and apartment management liked to cater to their tenants. Ion flicked past channels in French, Chinese, Arabic, Spanish, and Korean before stopping on a familiar head of red hair and a self-satisfied voice he remembered all too well.

  Evelyn Madigan smirked at some talking-head daytime TV host. Behind her a screen displayed the covers of his first six books and his book jacket photo. “I just don’t think we should support authors like Mr. Blackwell,” she said, to murmurs of agreement from the canned audience. “He’s using his books as a platform to spread damaging messages that are, quite frankly, disgusting. That’s not the sort of thing we can allow in the twenty-first century. The books our children read affect how they see the world.”