A Second Chance at Paris

by Cole McCade

  But it had been Mary Haverford who’d stood at a railing just like this one and sighed at the stars, and dreamed that Ion Blackwell could ever love her.

  She grimaced. She’d gotten her answer that night. He’d braved the upper deck’s cold winds to stand at the railing. She doubted he’d even noticed her, but she hadn’t able to look away from his elegant artist’s features, his profile sheened by a kaleidoscope of light reflected from the river. He’d had a certain quiet grace about him even as a boy, his stillness arresting in its absoluteness. He’d been the only boy in her class taller than she, and she’d always ached to lean against his wide, angular shoulder and let his sheer height make her feel small and girlish instead of gangly and coltish.

  The night breeze had tossed his hair with sweet wildness, until it caught in long lashes and drifted into rich blue eyes. She’d been painfully aware of his nearness, painfully aware they were alone—and agonizingly aware she was staring. His head had angled toward her. He’d blinked in that slow, dreamy way of his, and she’d held her breath. Had he noticed her staring? She should look away. She had to look away. But then he’d turned toward her, lips parting, gaze dark, and she’d been frozen to the spot, leaning toward him like a flower to the sun, yearning for his voice.

  Then Lily Sorensen had bounced upstairs, trendy heeled boots clattering, perfect blond curls blowing beautifully in the wind, Ion’s name on her gloss-pink lips. Ion had looked away from Celeste as Lily laid a proprietary hand on his arm and stretched up on her toes to murmur in his ear. He’d bowed to listen, and the silhouette they’d made against the night had been so perfect, so intimate, that Celeste hadn’t been able to stand the sight. She’d looked out over the water, throat tight, and pretended they weren’t there. She hadn’t even gone down when they’d left, and she’d heard a fight on the lower deck. Only later had she learned the fight had been between Ion and Jake Matthews. Probably over Lily; Jake had been in love with Lily since freshman year. Apparently, so had Ion.

  Celeste couldn’t blame him. Everyone had loved Lily’s vibrant sweetness. She and Ion had belonged together, and Celeste had realized some dreams would never be more than that.

  Dreams.

  With a smile, she leaned on the rail. She’d been a silly girl, heart on her sleeve, but she kind of missed that. Falling in love was never the same—never as light, as sweet, as guileless, the emotion not as raw or real when it became about work schedules and who paid for dinner and whether it was too soon to have sex. Mundane things took the romance out of it, when at sixteen it had been about wishing for that one perfect, breathless, magical kiss with that special someone who didn’t even know she was alive.

  Now she just had a half-dozen ex-special someones who said she was an amazing friend, but a lousy girlfriend.

  Her eyes stung. She should be standing here with…someone. People did that; they fell in love and took romantic trips to Paris, and cuddled on dreamy moonlit boat tours. But even then she’d have been worrying over her presentation for tomorrow, wondering if Ophelia gave their father his meds, pondering wind speed for Kelvin-Helmholtz instability in Jupiter’s Red Spot, picking out constellations…and never quite here with the imaginary boyfriend.

  She really wasn’t cut out for relationships.

  She lifted her gaze to the sky and picked out Venus. It hurt, when she smiled. “Guess I wasted a wish,” she whispered. “Do I get a do-over?”

  The soft scuff of a sole against the deck warned when someone approached. She straightened, rubbed her eyes, and pulled her hoodie tighter around herself. The last thing she wanted was to ruin some happy couple’s romantic Parisian night when they stumbled on a single woman on the verge of a nostalgic crying jag. They’d probably think she was pulling a Rose, about to fling herself dramatically over the rail of the mini-Titanic.

  The footsteps stopped at her side, barely a foot away. She caught a sense of height, masculine body heat, a quietly commanding presence. A low voice rolled over her, husky baritone like whiskey and silk.

  “Belle nuit, n’est-ce pas?” he asked, softly accented inflections agonizingly familiar. Celeste looked up, her heart tumbling to the very bottom of her chest and constricting painfully tight.

  Fathomless blue eyes looked over the water, set in an elegantly sculpted face: ten years older, more weathered, tanned complexion darkened by the shadow of stubble—but so distinctive she’d know him anywhere. She clutched the railing with fingers almost numb to the cool metal, blood draining to leave them rubbery. She knew him. She knew him, but there was no way it could be him. It was impossible. It was incredible. It was absolutely unbelievable, and she had to be hallucinating.

  It was Ion Blackwell.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SOMEWHERE BETWEEN CALCULATING THE STATISTICAL improbability of this and wondering if she was dreaming her way through her very own increasingly nonsensical Oz, Celeste blurted, “What are you doing here?”

  This just didn’t happen. Bump into her childhood crush in her hometown supermarket? Sure. Bump into him in Paris, and here? She—he—she couldn’t even form words. Ion. Was here. Ion. Here. She was dreaming.

  Right?

  That’s it. I’ve finally snapped. Maybe it was the radioactive isotopes after all.

  She tried not to stare. Ten years had only made him more painfully beautiful; his rangy teenaged build had filled out to imposing height, broad shoulders, a runner’s casually athletic grace. Long, angular hands curled against the rail. His hands had always fascinated her with their rough-edged artistry; storyteller’s hands. He’d done best in English, illustrating his class presentations with hands that shaped the words. Right there, across the left, was the faded remnant of a familiar scar, pale against the bronzed ridges of his knuckles. She’d been there when he’d gotten it, watching from the stands while he played goalie in JV soccer. Someone’s cleats had torn his hand on a wayward kick just as he dove to block the ball.

  It was really him, and her frantically ricocheting heart had forgotten she wasn’t sixteen anymore—and she’d been over him for more than ten years.

  Especially when she realized how crappy she looked in her ratty tourist clothes, her hair a hot mess, and not one scrap of makeup. Next to his faded designer jeans and crisp button-down, open at the throat to expose the strong ridges of his collarbones, she looked like an extra from Les Miserables.

  He glanced at her. His tousled hair slanted across his eyes; they gleamed in its shadow. “Ah, English. My apologies.” His mouth quirked. He looked out over the water again. “I said it’s a lovely night. Did I startle you?”

  “N-no.” Yes. Hell yes.

  Oh Auntie Em, there was a witch and a man with heartbreakingly blue eyes, and you were there, and you, and you…

  He slid his hands into his pockets, slouching with careless ease. He was still taller than she, forcing her to look up. She made herself look away, and tried to be subtle about edging back. In high school she’d always kept her distance, and suddenly she was that girl again: all limbs and angles everywhere. She’d fallen through a time warp back to that night on the Seine. That same pregnant silence between them, only now he stood so close she could touch him. He was actually looking at her. Seeing her. Speaking to her, and she had no idea what to say.

  She still couldn’t believe he was real; that he was here. Not balding. Not married, from the unbroken tan of his ring finger. The jury was still out on the accounting job and seventeen cats, but right now she didn’t care.

  A thousand questions bubbled up, but her lips remained frozen, tongue twisted into a tangle of knots. How did you get here? Am I imagining this? Am I being Punk’d?

  And why is my heart beating so fast?

  He folded his arms against the rail. “You can stop looking at me that way.”

  She froze. “Wh-what way?”

  “The way a woman looks at a strange man who sneaks up behind her, alone in the dark.” A thoughtful smile played across his lips. “You’ll have to excuse the intrusion.
It’s not often I see anyone alone on these tours. I was…curious.”

  “Um. About what?”

  “Who you are.” His piercing, assessing gaze cut right through her; her spine turned liquid with sweet-dark shivers. “And what story you might tell.”

  Confusion cleared with a nauseating bolt of clarity.

  He had no idea who she was.

  Strange man. Who you are. He didn’t recognize her. Not surprising, since he’d likely never seen her hair any color but Manic Panic After Midnight, or looked at her for more than a nanosecond. Hurt and relief vied for control. She’d made so little impression that, years later, he didn’t recognize an old classmate—while she’d known him on sight, at such an innate level her stomach refused to unclench and his presence rendered her breathless.

  But if he didn’t remember her, he wouldn’t remember Hairy Mary. Or her freckles, blue hair, horrid glasses, numerous social failures, and the way she’d dart away like a frightened squirrel every time he came near.

  He didn’t need to remember. Celeste London had no reason to enlighten him. So he’d managed to walk back into her life in the one place she’d least expected; that didn’t mean they should take a stroll down memory lane. And while Hairy Mary Haverford might have made an ass of herself, maybe Celeste London could get through this with a minimum of decorum and walk away with her head held high.

  But she was still staring at him like an idiot. He still watched her, waiting for an answer. She cleared her throat and pulled up a cool smile, the one she usually saved for job interviews.

  “Most people don’t walk up to strangers and ask them for a story, Mister…?”

  “Blackwell. Ion Blackwell.” He smiled dryly. “If you ask for my autograph, I’m leaving.”

  She frowned. “Autograph?”

  “I’m an author.” At her blank look, he chuckled, that whiskey voice taking on a dark amaretto sweetness that made her want to taste it on his lips. “Thank God, finally someone who hasn’t heard of me.”

  “…should I have?”

  “Don’t know if I’m insulted, humbled, or relieved.” He shrugged, shoulders subtly tightening. “I suppose my books have enjoyed some commercial success.”

  “And by ‘some’ you mean…”

  “Six New York Times bestsellers. The first is being adapted into a film. The Girl Who Would Be Everything.”

  She wasn’t surprised. He’d always captivated her with the way he spoke; the smoky, dreamlike quality to his voice; a way of phrasing things that captured attention and didn’t let go. It was only natural that talent would translate to the page, and bespell readers as much as it bespelled her.

  Had. Had bespelled her. That was then, this was now, and she was over her high school crush.

  She held desperately to her aloof little smile. “Guess I’ve had my head in the sand. I read more science texts than fiction, and don’t really catch movies or TV shows until they come out on Netflix. Probably pretty dull compared to what you do.” She realized she hadn’t introduced herself, and offered her hand. “Sorry. I’m Ma—Celeste London.”

  She’d almost said Mary Haverford. She hadn’t thought of herself that way for years, even her family calling her Cel, but right now—trying to play cool, chatting like she wasn’t ready to melt—she felt more like Mary than she had since high school.

  Ion clasped her hand, grip firm, leaving her palm tingling. “Reading for pleasure, or for work?”

  “Both?” She stuffed her hand into her pocket, fingers curling to hold his warmth. She wished she had her keychain, something familiar and comforting to hold on to, but her keys were at the hotel. “I love my work, so reading for work is a pleasure.”

  “What is it you do, Miss London?”

  “I’m a consultant.”

  His eyes glittered with unvoiced laughter. “So you’re unemployed.”

  “I’m…between engagements.” At his skeptical look, she grinned. “I’m unemployed at the moment. But I’m a consulting astrophysicist. I even got to name a star, once.” She patted her pockets. She never went anywhere without a business card somewhere. Finally she found one in the back pocket of her jeans, its corners bent, and offered it. “See? Consultant in Astronautical and Aeronautical Science. If it’s on a business card, it has to be true.”

  He took the card between two long fingers and scanned it. She’d expected him to give it back, but he tucked it into his breast pocket. Her heart wound tighter than a spring.

  “She breaks out the big words.”

  “Just means I work with aerospace engineers to get us from here to…well…up there.” She looked up at the sky.

  His gaze followed hers, lingering on the canopy of night. “Sounds like you should be working for NASA.”

  “I thought I would, when I was a kid. I’d daydream about being an astronaut. But…not easy being an astronaut with twenty-sixty vision and NASA funding so low.” She lowered her eyes, watching the reflection of the stars. The water glimmered and whispered, lapping against the boat. “So I work in private enterprise. Or I did. No jobs in the States. Tons of eggheads, not enough people who need a starry-eyed space cadet.”

  “Isn’t there a conference in the city this week?”

  “Yeah.” She shrugged one shoulder. “That’s why I’m here. Teaching a few workshops, looking for a job. Someone needs a geek. If you’re dealing with radiation bursts and solar storms and atmospheric reentry vectors, I’m your girl. Doesn’t seem like a big deal, until Virgin trashes their multibillion dollar luxury lunar aircraft with all the rich people inside.”

  “I understood about half that,” he said, but the way he watched her was too discerning, too deep. As if he saw too much.

  As if he saw that night when he’d turned toward Lily Sorensen, and Celeste had started to give up on daydreams.

  She flushed. “Sorry. I always do this. I start talking science and your eyes glaze over, and—”

  “My eyes aren’t glazed.” He paused, then conceded, “They’re a little glazed. This isn’t my area of expertise, but I’d like to know more.”

  “O-oh. You would?”

  “I’m a writer. I thrive on information.” He tossed his head, clearing his disheveled hair from his eyes. “Maybe I could use a few starry-eyed daydreams in my next book.”

  Celeste tried to unglue her tongue from the roof of her mouth. She was not in any way, shape, or form equipped to handle this. She’d never be equipped to handle Ion Blackwell, no matter her name. She could be Cleopatra, and still she wouldn’t know what to do when Ion stood next to her with his quiet self-possession and his dry, lazy smile and said he’d like to know about her work.

  Said he’d like to know about her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and pushed away to stumble toward the rows of seats near the wheelhouse. “I need to sit down.”

  He followed, the dark dashes of his brows knotting. “Are you all right?”

  No. No, she was not. She was very far from all right, somewhere between dizzy and acid flashback. This was too surreal, and she was trying not to have a panic attack while her hormones dragged her back to junior year, turning her from a calm, competent woman into a stuttering teenager who couldn’t string two words together. Part of her was still convinced this was a dream, and any moment now she’d end up standing in front of a classroom, stark naked with Ion in a front row seat.

  Of all the boats in all the rivers in all the world, he had to walk onto mine. Wait. That was Casablanca, not The Wizard of Oz. She nearly giggled; she was losing it. Pull it together.

  She took a deep breath and found her smile again, though her lips stretched like rubber. “Eighteen-hour flight,” she said, “and the attendant wouldn’t let me take my heels off.”

  “You don’t seem like the stilettos type.”

  He sank down next to her, only the thin armrest between them. His angular shoulder brushed hers. Through his shirt, the heat and strength of his arm burned into her. Hip to hip. Thigh to thigh. She gulped and
trained her gaze ahead, and tried not to breathe too deeply. He smelled like sun-warmed stone and a hint of something crisp as seawater, sharp and masculine and rich, and if she breathed him in she’d never want to exhale.

  Words. She had to make words. She shouldn’t be reacting this way. She couldn’t, when for all he knew they’d just met. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard against her dry throat. “How would you know my type, Mr. Blackwell?”

  Because he watched you trip over your own toes for four years, that’s how.

  “I make it a habit to know people,” he said. “Character studies.”

  She opened her eyes. He looked at the sky, expression distant, full-lipped mouth pensive. She could remember a time when she’d ached for this, to sit this close to him—close enough to see each dark curve of his lashes, close enough to rest her hand on his arm and draw his attention back to her. Past his cuffed sleeve his tanned forearm was warm, the dusting of hair tickling her palm.

  At her touch, he looked down. The tilt of his head brought him closer, until his exhalations caressed her brow and stirred her hair. She struggled to hold still, to keep from closing her eyes and soaking him in.

  “So study me,” she whispered. “What kind of character would I be?”

  Leaning away, he shifted to face her, depriving her of his warmth. He drew one leg up, foot braced on the seat, and laced his fingers over his knee. She’d expected his scrutiny. She hadn’t expected the intense focus he turned on her, watching her with an unwavering steadiness that practically stripped her naked. The heat in her cheeks banished the night’s chill, and try as she might, she couldn’t look away.

  The silence between them was too loud. The voices of other passengers became too crisp, the slap of the river waves too sharp, the beat of her heart too rough. Her lips parted. She had to say something. To end this. She couldn’t stand to be looked at this way—with a penetrating intimacy that cut to the core.