A Second Chance at Paris

by Cole McCade

  “Oh, God,” she said, taking a deep breath and lifting her glasses to rub her eyes. Her smile lit up her face, tension gone to leave an ease that warmed him like sunlight after a frozen night. “If we’re going, we should go now. Before someone figures out I did this and comes for my head.”

  “C’mon,” he said, and pushed away from the wall. “We can share a cab.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CELESTE DIDN’T KNOW WHAT INTIMIDATED her more: riding in the cab while the small space filled with Ion’s heat, or trying to clean herself up into something presentable while he waited downstairs. She’d excused herself before he could invite himself up. She didn’t understand why he was so persistently interested in her, but if he didn’t stop, she’d spontaneously combust.

  She scrubbed off so quickly her skin burned; the muddy patina of soot scraped away and ran down the shower drain in sludgy channels. Life must be laughing at her so hard right now. First time seeing Ion in ten years, she’d been a ratty mess with no makeup. Second time? She’d caused a minor chemical disaster, and came out looking like she’d gone mudding in a toxic waste dump. Even worse, she’d gotten it all over him. At least the chemicals were harmless, about the same as a standard smoke bomb, but it was the principle of the thing.

  He probably thought she was such a basket case. High school all over again.

  She wiggled into her nice jeans and her Cherry Pi baby doll tee, then slicked on a quick sheen of lip gloss and just enough eyeliner not to be trying too hard. Not a date. Right. She shouldn’t care how she looked because this wasn’t a date. It shouldn’t matter that she didn’t have time to straighten her hair and in half an hour, it would dry into a mess of flyaway waves. Not a date. Not a date.

  “Grow up, Cel,” she told her reflection, then grabbed her bag and fled for the elevator.

  Downstairs, he slouched in the idling cab like he wasn’t absolutely filthy, calm and casual and confident. She didn’t doubt he’d go to lunch just like that—and she’d still find him ridiculously handsome.

  She slipped into the cab and flashed a smile. “Sorry that took so long.”

  “Not a problem.” His gaze fell to her shirt, with its red pi symbols dangling from green cherry stems. “Cute shirt. My little sister would love that.”

  “Z—” Crap. Crap. She’d almost asked Zoraya?, but she shouldn’t know his sister’s name. She trailed into a forced cough, pressing one hand to her chest and one over her mouth. “Sorry,” she managed, rubbing her throat. “Guess it isn’t all out.”

  “I know. Tastes like I licked asphalt.” He leaned forward and gave the cabbie directions in husky French, then settled as the car pulled off. “You sure we won’t die?”

  “We’re not going to die.”

  “You could be a mass murderer. A vile vixen who seduces men with her wicked wiles, then poisons everyone with chemical smoke.”

  Celeste choked on a laugh. “Where do you come up with this stuff?”

  “Writer’s imagination. Just think of the things I don’t say.”

  “Don’t think I want to know. Besides, I’m not a vixen.”

  “Maybe in your eyes,” he rumbled, luminous gaze tracing over her. “Not in mine.”

  Her breath strangled. He had to stop looking at her like that. She glanced away, out the window, and brushed her hair back. Her cheeks steamed molten-hot. “How far is your apartment?

  “Not far. I’d ask if you want to come up, but you’ll say no.”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “You’re that insistent on keeping a strict professional line.”

  “You make that sound like a bad thing.”

  “You tell me,” he murmured. “Is it?”

  She couldn’t answer. How was life this cruel, that the boy she’d adored for years finally wanted her when she couldn’t have the man he was now? She took a slow breath and shrugged. “Don’t really know,” she finally said, avoiding looking anywhere near him.

  The city flashed by, glittering under the midmorning sun, bright with early spring flowers. Ion said nothing else, but the weight of his gaze nearly suffocated her. Her fingers curled against her thighs, and she could manage only a brief smile when they stopped outside a stylish apartment building and he said, “Be right back” before getting out.

  She took the time to compose herself. Calm. Professional. She could do this. And by the time he came back downstairs, dusky skin glistening damp, a thin t-shirt stretched across his chest, wet hair raked to one side…she almost believed it.

  “Ready?” she asked as he slid in.

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  He directed the cab to a cozy café that smelled like lattes and sugar cookies. When he opened the car door for her, she didn’t say anything. But when he pulled her chair out, she eyed him.

  “Do I need to remind you this isn’t a date?”

  “Nothing wrong with a little professional courtesy,” he said mildly. He settled into the chair opposite her, a thing of dark shadows against the sunlit airiness of the café, his hand like cinnamon spilled against the white tablecloth. He plucked a laminated menu from the condiment stand. “So if we’re on billable time, I should think of things to ask you.”

  “At two hundred an hour, you can ask anything you want.” She held up a hand. “Related to astrophysics.”

  His gaze fixed on her from under dark brows, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Caught me.”

  “I’m learning your wicked ways.” She snagged a menu, then sighed and put it back. French. No pictures. She really should’ve brushed up before an international trip that could make or break her career. With a rueful smile she said, “Astrophysics. Hit me. I’m a walking encyclopedia.”

  “Let me think.” He glanced at her menu. “Need me to translate?”

  “I’m fine. I can say croissant, quiche, crepe, and baguette. I’ll manage.” She perked. “Oh! Soufflé. That’s five. See? My French isn’t half bad.”

  “You’re missing out.” He tapped blunt fingers against his menu. “So…questions. Let’s start with basics. Do you have to be an astrophysicist to be an astronaut?”

  “Not really. Actually, we often get disqualified because we’re too busy studying to train for the physical requirements.”

  A lingering look caressed her. “Nothing wrong with your physical requirements.”

  “Ion!”

  “Objectively. You’d make a good astronaut, if not for that twenty-sixty vision.”

  But the flicker in his eyes made a liar of him. She snorted and picked at her menu. “Next question, Mr. Blackwell.”

  “I shouldn’t like it when you call me that,” he purred; she tried not to melt into her chair. “So I get how astrophysics relates to launch vectors, atmospheric exit windows—”

  “You spent last night on Wikipedia.”

  He laughed. “Only an hour. But what about stargazing? I mean, does knowing how many planets orbit Alpha Centauri really help get astronauts into space? How can you even tell that? Isn’t that billions of miles away?”

  “Think trillions. Most people don’t get how big a light-year really is.” She spread her arms wide, then jerked back when she almost knocked over a passing waiter’s tray. “Sorry! Um…desole?”

  The man spat something in hasty French. Ion rattled something back; the only word Celeste recognized was another desole. She could’ve crawled under the table when the waiter gave her a dirty look and stalked off. Great. Now she had Ion apologizing for her.

  “Sorry.” She smacked her face into her palm. “Situational awareness? Not my strong point. My mom used to say my head was so far in the clouds I’d walk off a cliff without noticing until my feet hit the ground miles ahead of my brain.”

  Ion chuckled. “Cute. But no harm done. You were explaining what astronomy has to do with space travel?”

  “Right. Thing is, everything we learn about near and far space helps us understand our solar system, and the laws of the universe. When we know more about that, it lets
us figure out how to build better, faster spaceships and discover amazing things about gravity, particles, and…” Aaand he was just looking at her. “…and I’m rambling.”

  “It’s all right. You love what you do. I like that. Passion. For most people, a job is just a job. For you, it really means something.”

  God, that smile. The way he looked at her. Ten years ago, she would have killed for this. For him, sitting right across from her, hanging on her every word, seeing her when she was so sure she’d been invisible.

  Stop fooling yourself, Cel. If he knew who you really were, you wouldn’t just be invisible. You’d be scum.

  “But,” he continued, “that still doesn’t explain how you see planets on the other side of the galaxy.”

  “It’s not that hard.” She made herself shrug. Keep it casual. “We observe changes in radiation wavelengths that affect visible light output, mostly.”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “No idea what you just said.”

  “Look, when a planet orbits a star, it has an aphelion and a perihelion, pulling it closer or farther away. Its presence can obstruct or warp visible and non-visible radia—” She dragged a hand through her damp hair. “It’d probably be easier to show you. I mean, I can’t really show you, not without the Hubble, but…it makes more sense when you’re looking up there.”

  “…nothing’s going to explode this time, is it?”

  “Why do people always ask me that?” She scowled and folded her arms over her chest. “This time was your fault.”

  “A dishonor I still gladly claim.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you so proud of that?”

  “I got you to myself.”

  Her heart detoured wildly down to her knees. He had to stop saying such things, or she’d start wanting him to. She couldn’t. He wasn’t for her. Even if he figured her out tomorrow and forgave her lie of omission, she just couldn’t. Her father had to come first, and she’d already tried to have a love life on her dad’s medication schedule.

  And she couldn’t do that to her father. Couldn’t tell someone who might remember Alan Haverford about the disease slowly devouring his mind and heart, only for them to think of such a proud man with nothing but pity.

  She looked away, through the tint of faux stained-glass windows and into the honeyed light of midday. “Just so you know?” she said thickly, “We’re not going stargazing from the Eiffel Tower. It’s a cliché. Not happening.”

  He was looking at her that way again. As if he knew what she was thinking, peeling her layers back like an onion. But all he said was, “You’re missing a stunning view.”

  “I’ve seen it before.”

  “Not your first trip to Paris?”

  “Um. No.” Damn it, she had to stop slipping up. “Any other ideas?”

  “Roof of my building. Tonight.” When her gaze shot back to him, he laughed. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s tall enough, and we don’t have to ask permission to go up.”

  Just Say No to Ion Blackwell, she thought, but out loud said “Okay” before she could stop herself. Inwardly, she swore. But it was already out, and if she tried to take it back she’d need an excuse. If she was honest with herself, she didn’t want to take it back. “But I’m still billing you for the time.”

  “And I still have every intention of paying you.”

  “Good,” she muttered, then broke off when another waiter approached.

  Ion conversed with the waiter in easy, natural-sounding French, his low voice turning the words into a lyrical cadence that captured her attention and drew it to his mouth. The way his lips shaped the words; the red flicker of his tongue against white teeth. That subtle quirk of humor, deeper on one side than the other, that left creases in the corners of his firm, full mouth. Her own mouth ached and tingled, her teeth biting down a little too hard, until the pain snapped her back to awareness with the realization the waiter was leaving. She blinked.

  “I didn’t get to order.”

  “I ordered for you. Something better than quiche or croissants. If you’re going to spend any time out while you’re here, you should get to know the cuisine.”

  She frowned. “I was fine with quiche.”

  “Humor me, Cel. It’s tarte flambée forestiére. Like French pizza. We can split one. Promise you’ll like it.”

  “Okay, okay.” She slid down in her chair, feeling very much sixteen again: sulking just for sulking’s sake. “I want to add ‘persistent’ and ‘domineering’ to your list of adjectives.”

  “On top of ‘frustrating?’”

  “Yes. You need at least three for a proper list, so now it’s a list.”

  “I could think of a few other things you could call me.”

  “So could I. And they’re not pretty.”

  He laughed, eyes catching the sunlight like flakes of gold sifting ever deeper into a bright blue sea. “Do you really hate me that much?” he asked.

  The problem, Celeste thought as chills prickled her skin, is that I don’t hate you at all.

  * * *

  Over lunch, Ion listened while Celeste explained booster rockets and why they became unnecessary once a shuttle exited atmosphere. He wondered if she had any clue just how entrancing she was, when she went off on tangents about the effects of zero gravity on bone density or the mechanics of slingshotting a satellite into orbit or non-equilibrium gas models. Her voice was mellow with a touch of sweetness and she talked with her hands, lively and vivid, sketching out scenarios with slender fingers, eyes alight with an unfeigned passion that most lost in childhood.

  There was something so oddly genuine about her, without the artifice of coy mannerisms and carefully painted-on presentation—the sharp intellect of a woman paired with the appeal of the ingénue, until he found himself riveted to every word that fell from soft pink lips, and occupying his hands with food so he wouldn’t surrender to the urge to brush the loose waves of hair from her face. It had dried into a natural tangle of sweeping tumbles, begging him to bury his fingers in the lustrous mass and tip her face up to his.

  But he didn’t dare. Not when she’d finally started to relax, and the last thing he wanted was to scare her off before he could figure out just what kept eating at him. What made it so easy to just talk to her, when he was rarely so free with anyone except his sisters. And Drake, who might as well be his brother.

  Celeste…Celeste was something else. And it was those moments when she avoided his eyes, when pensive silence settled over her before she could bring herself to speak again, that he found her most captivating.

  When the bill came he tried to take the leather folder, but she caught him. Her soft hand covered his, halting it, holding it against the table with the velvet heat of her skin melting into his. He froze, raising his gaze to hers. She sat still as a fawn, dappled by rainbow specks of sunlight from the tinted windows. Her lips parted, eyes wide and cast in pale violet shadow. The clamor of conversation filled the restaurant around them; the rattle of dishes from the kitchen, the scrape of chairs against the floor—but between them all was still and timeless, the only sound he heard the beating of his heart.

  She snatched her hand back. Its absence sliced as keenly as a cut. That wary look shuttered her eyes again before they lowered, the veil of her lashes falling. She tugged the bill folder with just her fingertips, visibly avoiding contact with him.

  “I…” Her breath caught, then smoothed; she started again. “I said you’re not paying.”

  “Cel.”

  “Seriously, you paid for the cab.”

  “Cel—”

  “And you’re paying for my dry cleaning—”

  “Cel.” He took a risk and caught her hand, curling it in his own. She stiffened, but wouldn’t look at him. “I won’t pay if it really bothers you. But I don’t think that’s it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Then why won’t you look at me?”

  “It’s rude to stare.”

  “Am
I being rude now?”

  She darted a glance at him, then looked away, cheeks blooming in watercolor shades of pink and rose. “Yes. You’re staring at me. You keep staring at me.”

  “I enjoy looking at things I find beautiful.”

  She jerked her hand from his and hid it under the table. “You shouldn’t say that.”

  “Why not?” He decided to just lay it out; he wasn’t fond of mincing around the obvious. “Are you afraid of me, Celeste? Are you afraid if you tell me to leave you alone, I’ll do something terrible?”

  “What?” Her voice strangled into a broken sound. She stared at him, an odd look flickering across her face, there and gone. “N-no—I don’t—what makes you think that? I don’t even know you.”

  “You’re jumpy as a cat around me. I’m starting to think I did something wrong.”

  “You didn’t. Oh, God.” She buried her face in her hands, then dug them into her hair. “Ion, I just…have a lot of complications in my life right now.”

  “Like that phone call last night?”

  “Exactly like that. It’s personal. I don’t like to talk about it, but I promise it’s not you. I didn’t mean to be such a spaz. I’m not normally like this, but I’ve got so much on my mind I don’t know how it all fits in my head.”

  Soft gray-violet eyes pleaded with him to understand. He did, in his own way. His own ghosts haunted him, always looking over his shoulder no matter who he was with.

  “Look,” he said, offering his hand, curled palm-up. “Be a spaz if you want. Be calm. Be anything. I just don’t want to make things worse by flirting.”

  “You’re not.” Yet she eyed his hand as if it had teeth, before slipping her fingers into his, the feather-light brush of her fingertips grazing his palm. “Ion…I find you very attractive. I do.” She colored prettily, ducking her head and tucking her hair back, artlessly sweet. “I’m just…preoccupied. I wouldn’t know what to do with you if I had you.”

  “I have a few suggestions.”

  “That’s not something you want to tell me before dragging me to your lair.” She smiled ruefully. “I’m really sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”