A Second Chance at Paris

by Cole McCade

  “I thought I should apologize for making you uncomfortable. If I’m doing something to upset you, I’d like to know so I can stop.”

  “It’s not you, I promise. But if it ever is, I’ll tell you.”

  “Good.” With a brief, reassuring squeeze, he let her go and pointedly tugged the bill folder away. “But I still think I should make up for it by buying lunch.”

  Her shoulders sagged, but she still smiled—and made no effort to reclaim the bill. A small victory; he’d take it. “You’re incorrigible, you know that?” she said.

  “Another adjective?”

  “Yes,” she huffed, then relaxed with a despairing laugh. “Okay. But deduct the cost of lunch from my rate.”

  He flipped the folder open, scanned the receipt, then fished out his bank card. “Not happening.”

  “Ion!”

  She snatched at the folder but he held it out of reach, and kept his hand over it when he set it on the table.

  “Are you really going to tear up a paycheck over a twenty-Euro lunch?” he asked.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t tempt me.”

  But that’s exactly what I’d like to do. He lingered on how she held her mouth tight, clearly struggling not to smile. He’d like to tempt her. To kiss her until the set of her lips softened, warm and yielding under his. Until she opened for him as if she’d been made for him. Until she was tempted.

  Her tongue darted over the lips that held him captive, before they bowed to shape words. “You’re staring at me again,” she murmured.

  “So I am.”

  He focused his attention on the bill folder. He’d hate to destroy this tenuous ease that had settled over them. Getting to know her was like coaxing a bird to eat from his hand; the slightest wrong movement and she’d flit away. She’d said it wasn’t him, but he could still make it worse. And even if he was powerfully curious about what in her life upset her so—curious and worried, remembering the stark fear in her eyes—he wouldn’t ask.

  Just because he wanted to make it his business didn’t mean he could.

  He penned in a tip—even if the food had tasted a little odd, with a strange undertone—and slipped his card inside, then signaled the waiter. After the man left with the folder, Celeste craned to look after him, then stood. Ion did as well, circling the table to draw her chair out.

  “I need to go.” She glanced over her shoulder at him as she shouldered her bag and tucked her hands into her pockets. “Lunch with you was my secret plot for avoiding damage control with the conference administrators.”

  She started to turn away, but he stopped her with a touch to her shoulder.

  “Tonight. Eight o’clock?” he asked. “I’ll text you the address. I can bring dinner.”

  One slim brow rose, sharp as a dash of ink. “Do you always feed your employees?”

  “Technically you’re a contractor, not an employee.”

  “Don’t start semantics with me.” She pointed a stern finger at him. “I was on the debate team in high school, remember?”

  “I don’t recall you sharing that little tidbit, no, but I’ll keep it in mind.” He smiled slowly. “I was, too. Maybe we can spar sometime.”

  Her eyes widened. Something like horror flickered across her face. She stammered, then looked away, huffing and hunching into her shoulders—and that sense of familiarity struck him again. Remember? she’d said.

  What are you not saying, Celeste? he thought, but bit his tongue. His imagination had to be running away from him. Hazard of the occupation.

  “Contractor or employee,” she said, “you’re still paying me.”

  “So you don’t take payment in baguettes?”

  She groaned. “Ion.”

  “I admit, that was terrible. Never said I wrote comedy.” He shrugged. “A thousand dollars for a kiss, and fifty cents for your soul.”

  Curiosity flickered in her eyes. “Is that from an author?”

  “Marilyn Monroe, albeit grossly out of context.”

  “Cute.”

  He found himself drawn to her mouth again. He liked her without the severe, business-perfect makeup. Natural and soft, with those plush pink lips inviting him to taste without the slickness of cosmetics. “Do you want to know how much I’d pay for a kiss?”

  Her eyes widened fractionally; her breath hitched in her throat, loud between them, before she looked away and folded her arms in a defensive shield. “It figures prostitution is legal in France.”

  “If I steal the kiss it’s not prostitution.”

  “No, but it’s a very, very bad idea.” She backed away and flashed him a borderline apologetic smile. “I’ll see you tonight, Ion.”

  “Right.”

  He watched her go with a sigh, until she slipped out into the sunlight and passed by the color-filtered window panes. She was always running away. What was it that frightened her, that even casual flirting turned her eyes dark with hurt?

  He didn’t know, but he didn’t quite believe it wasn’t related to him. Not after the way she’d looked at him, so guarded, so wary. Yet she’d accepted his company; this constant push-and-pull, back-and-forth in her reactions made her seem like two different people. One a wounded young woman who blushed prettily and skittered away like a nervous virgin; one the smart, competent professional he was paying as much for her wit as her expertise. He hadn’t even been counting the hours, today. It didn’t matter how much he paid for her advice.

  He was starting to think he’d pay anything for a chance to figure her out.

  CHAPTER SIX

  FOR THE SECOND TIME TODAY, Celeste reminded herself this was not a date.

  She scowled at her reflection as she blow-dried her hair into straight, sweeping layers. She’d dressed casual: ripped jeans, strappy heels, an off-the-shoulder sloop-neck sweater in mist-gray knit that clung to her in soft folds. Warm enough for a brisk spring evening, and nice enough not to look like a vagrant without trying too hard.

  Only she absolutely was trying too hard. And thinking about this too hard. And—and—everything.

  She had to keep it together. Ion had been so earnest in the restaurant this afternoon. So sincere. So convinced he’d done something to spook her, while she’d felt like the biggest asshole in the world for not telling him the truth then and there, especially when she’d made that near-disastrous slip about the debate team.

  But she’d enjoyed herself with him. He filled her with breathless magic and a million fireflies, and she hadn’t wanted to end it with damning honesty. But even if he could have accepted the truth, just thinking about high school brought the days of Hairy Mary shame crashing down, and made her feel smaller than the tiniest of subatomic particles. She hadn’t wanted that shame to interrupt the warm flush that filled her when he’d looked at her, his eyes soft and dark with appreciation.

  She was allowed to hold on to that. Just that one thing, before she went back home and forgot him all over again.

  And tonight, she would act like an adult and stop jumping every time he even looked at her.

  She snagged the bag with her telescope, tucked her wallet, phone, and other necessities inside, then eyed the crumpled wad of her ruined clothing. She couldn’t let Ion pay for her dry cleaning. She stuffed it into a garment bag and tucked it into her suitcase, before heading downstairs to her cab. As she slid into the back of the taxi, her phone buzzed with a text. Ion’s address, followed by Hope you like snapper en papillote.

  Celeste couldn’t restrain her smile. She gave the address to the driver, then texted back, No idea what that is. Only word I understand is ‘snapper,’ unless that’s something else in French.

  You’ll just have to find out.

  It’s not snails, is it?

  She could almost hear the quiet thunder of his laughter. Snails would be escargot. I have a feeling you knew that.

  Then guessing papillote is something about paper or butterflies.

  Have you been on Wikipedia, now?

  She snickered, then
stifled it behind her hand and glanced at the driver in the rearview mirror. Four years of Latin in school. You get used to figuring out root forms and noticing similarities to English.

  She breaks out the big words again. Before she could respond, a second text came through. I should put the phone down unless you like snapper en papillote flambée.

  I’ll pass. Hate texting anyway. If not for Swype, we wouldn’t be talking this much.

  I’ll see you shortly, then?

  In the cab now. With a smile, just a little too giddy, she tucked her phone into her bag and leaned back to watch the city roll past.

  Not a date, she reminded herself, but she was having more and more trouble remembering that.

  She’d barely gotten a glimpse of his building before, too on edge to pay much attention. But as she paid the driver and stepped onto the curb, she tilted her head back to stare at the towering high-rise, glassy and dark, reflecting back the night sky with an indigo sheen. Classy. Probably expensive. Just another reminder that Ion Blackwell was out of her league.

  She half expected to be denied entry, but there was no angry doorman to tell her the French equivalent of get out, you scruffy American. Only Ion, waiting in the lushly furnished, marble-tiled foyer, long frame lounging casually next to the elevator. When she stepped inside, he lifted his head, watching her through the wild fall of his hair; a slow smile curled his lips and tingled her toes.

  “Celeste.” He pushed away from the wall and tossed his head toward the elevator. “Come on. Elevator to the penthouse, then stairs to the roof.”

  She smoothed her hand over her sweater—as if she could pet her leaping stomach into place like a fractious puppy—and followed him into the elevator. The enclosed space filled with his crisp, warm scent; she had to stop herself from closing her eyes and soaking it in. She leaned against the wall, trying to be casual about keeping her distance, and told herself the jolt in the pit of her stomach was just the elevator taking off.

  “Won’t the penthouse tenant be annoyed with us for being on their floor?” she asked.

  “It usually doesn’t bother me, no.”

  “…oh. You own the penthouse?”

  He laughed, throaty and deep. “You sound shocked.”

  “No, it’s—I—” Celeste sighed. “You keep throwing me for a loop. Everything about you. You’re not…”

  You’re not who I expected. You’re not the boy I watched from afar without ever really knowing him…but I think you may be even better.

  She bit her tongue, forced back the words, and continued with barely a hitch. “You don’t act like a guy who’s rich enough to own a penthouse.”

  “Maybe because I didn’t go looking for money. It came to find me.” The elevator door opened; Ion held it for her. “After you.”

  She slipped into a darkly tiled entryway with only two doors. With a glance for the door to his apartment, she bit her lip and followed him into the stairwell and up to the roof.

  The breeze hit her, ripe with the scents of seafood and night air, as she stepped out and took in the expansive view. Paris looked like a carnival from this high up, all bright movement and glittering colored lights. Close to the rooftop’s raised edge, Ion had set up a patio table and chairs with place settings and covered dishes.

  And overhead the sky was clear and beautiful, the heavens laid out as if the night had dolled itself up in sequins to put on a show just for them.

  Celeste laughed; a light warmth rushed through her as she turned back to him. “I can’t believe you cooked.”

  “Is it really so strange?”

  “When you live in Paris and could order the best French cuisine in the world? It’s strange for anyone to cook.”

  “I see your point.” With an amused sound, he closed the distance between them and moved past, his arm brushing hers in a sizzle of heated contact. “You’ll have to tell me if my French cuisine measures up.”

  He drew out her chair. As she set her bag down and settled into her seat, he removed the covers from the dishes. Mouthwatering aromas rose from seared, herb-layered fish, covered in citrus slices and wrapped in a delicate parchment film; hunger pinched her stomach. She couldn’t identify the side dish, something with tomato rosettes, but it smelled heavenly.

  While he served them, Celeste folded her napkin in her lap, fidgeting with it to keep her hands busy. “So I was right. Fish cooked in parchment paper.”

  “You were, but I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of guessing right the first try.” He poured an aromatic white wine into slender stemmed glasses. “I’m going to lose my street cred as an intellectual if you keep showing me up.”

  She laughed. “Isn’t that what you’re paying me for? To be smart?”

  “Yes. But I had no idea I’d end up paying you to twist my brain inside out.” He picked up a fork and nodded toward her plate. “Go ahead. It’s a business dinner; no need for formality.”

  “Right. And you always cook like this for a business dinner?”

  “No idea what you’re talking about. I happened to want snapper en papillote. Since the timing coincided, it would’ve been rude not to cook for you.”

  “You realize I don’t believe a word of that?”

  “I’m wounded, Celeste.” Ion chuckled and segmented off a neat morsel. “Let’s eat. It’ll be hard to stargaze with our mouths full.”

  With a murmur of agreement, Celeste speared a bite; the fish was so flaky the fork could barely hold it, and the buttery scent under the seafood tang promised a rich flavor that left her salivating before she even slipped it past her lips.

  She almost spat it right back out.

  The fish tasted like dirty tires, bitter and acrid. She tried not to choke, and forced herself to chew and swallow, fighting to keep her expression neutral. She didn’t want to insult Ion, or his cooking—but she watched as he took a bite only to frown, his brows drawing together fiercely. Maybe something had gone wrong with the parchment he’d used, or—

  —oh God.

  She slumped in her seat, rubbing her temples and struggling not to laugh. “Your food tastes like rubber, doesn’t it?”

  “So it’s not just me.” He rested his fork on his plate. “I take it it’s from the smoke?”

  “Yes. I thought lunch tasted a little weird, but I think the cheese smothered most of the aftertaste. I bet a lot of people are going hungry tonight—and calling me every kind of dumbass in the book.” She covered her mouth with both hands, but could only muffle her snickers. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  He laughed that rich, throaty laugh that gave her shivers, rolling over her in heady waves. “It’s my fault for surprising you.” He pushed his plate away. “Next time I know: if I want to eat in the next few days, dropping in on you isn’t the wisest choice.”

  “I still can’t believe you did that.”

  “How else was I supposed to find you?”

  “There’s this thing called a phone.”

  “Once again,” he pointed out, “you told me not to call.”

  “I never thought you’d take me so literally.”

  “I try to take people at their word.” Ion took a sip of his wine, then grimaced. “Not quite strong enough to drown it out. How long will this last?”

  “A day? Two?” She winced. “Milk should help neutralize it. It coats the tongue and the inner lining of the stomach and esophagus. Any kind of dairy can help, like the cheese on the tarte flambée.”

  “You sound like you’ve had experience with this before.”

  “This isn’t my first chemical explosion. Just the first I could blame on someone else.”

  “Keep rubbing it in, and I’ll deduct a gloat tax from your pay.”

  “No, you won’t.” With a laugh, Celeste pushed back from the table. “I’ve lost my appetite. Come on. Let’s look at some stars.”

  She unpacked her telescope and set it up on the roof’s edge, while Ion watched with avid interest; she handled each piece of the Orion telescope as if i
t could break at any moment, arranging each component with delicate care. It was over twenty years old, yet nearly flawless save for the remnants of scratches she’d lovingly polished smooth. The finish was warmly familiar, the assembly almost a ritual, and she caught herself smiling as she mounted the telescope on its tripod.

  “A gift?” Ion asked softly, startling her into sucking in a breath. She’d forgotten he was there.

  “Yeah.” She chuckled as she gave the lens one last polish. “From my dad. I’ve had it since I was seven. Is it that obvious?”

  “There’s love in the way you touch it.”

  “It means more to me than anything.”

  She remembered her father showing her how to care for the Orion, and his gentle disappointment the first time she’d dropped it. He’d taught her how to repair it, guiding her hands as she learned how to recalibrate, how to fit a new lens, how to smooth the finish. She’d never dropped it again. And she’d never forgotten that memory.

  But she was afraid to wonder, now, if he had.

  Her throat closed. God, she couldn’t do this in front of Ion. She forced a smile although her eyes stung, and beckoned to him. “Come see. I’ll show you how to look for the constellations. It’s a little early, but we should be able to see the edge of Hercules.”

  He fixed her with a discerning look as he drew closer—until he stood at her side, his warmth enveloping her like the comfort of home. But he said nothing, bending to the telescope, shoulder brushing her arm. She swallowed hard and made herself focus on teaching him, the same way her father had taught her: look for the brightest one first, starlet. We’ll start with Regulus—see it there? That’s Leo’s feet. Now if you look straight up…

  “I see it,” Ion said, breathless wonder in his voice; her heart clenched. “So bright. I’ve never seen them so bright.”

  “That’s why I love the telescope. You can find constellations with the naked eye, but like this…it’s like they’re close enough to touch.” She leaned against the raised lip of the roof. “But if you look, part of your answer is right there. See how some stars are dimmer, and some are different colors?”