A Second Chance at Paris

by Cole McCade

  She doubted she’d get back to sleep. Strange bed, strange apartment, strange city, the surrealism of being in Ion’s bed…once she was up, she was up. She took the opportunity to really look around the apartment. The design resembled a converted loft: one massive room, terraced into single-step levels dividing different areas. Stark, elegant furniture scattered about with artful carelessness, black metal and linen against glossy black marble floors, walls painted a cool, comforting slate dotted with hanging prints of nighttime city skyscapes. The bed alone was enormous, at least a California king, yet looked toy-sized against the high beam ceilings.

  Despite its simplicity, the room exuded wealth, confidence, quiet calm. The possessions of a man who spent money only as he chose, rather than in tacky, exorbitant displays of affluence. Everything, from the art books stacked on the coffee table to the novels lining the staggered, wall-mounted bookshelves, was precisely selected and tastefully arranged.

  She lingered on the bookshelves, and the matching spines of a series tucked low in one corner, almost as if he didn’t want anyone to notice. She’d bet they were his. She bit her lip on her curiosity, darting a glance at him, then ventured,

  “May I?”

  “Hm?” He looked up, following her gaze to the bookshelf before returning to his screen. “Sure. Make yourself at home.”

  “Thanks.”

  She slipped from the bed, dragging the sheet with her, and fished around until she found her panties in the tangle on the floor. She wriggled into them, then stole his shirt. It nearly drowned her, and she tugged the neckline up over her shoulder as she padded to the bookshelf, fished out the stack of six books, and retreated to curl up on the couch.

  The first book cover showed a girl with purple hair, brightly intelligent eyes, and a sardonic quirk to her mouth. Violet Sparks: Revolution. This must be the spy book. She traced the embossed print with a smile, then flipped the book open, tucked herself into the corner of the couch, and—with Ion’s typing a soft rain in the background, soothing and steady—began to read.

  The problem with violets, Violet thought, was that they were a shy and shrinking flower, and she was not a shy and shrinking girl.

  Celeste laughed to herself. She liked Violet already. Maybe it was the purple hair.

  Her brows knit. Purple. Her hair had been blue in high school. He wouldn’t have…would he?

  Yeah, right. He didn’t even know you were alive. Get over yourself, Cel. Enough with the high school fantasies.

  She snorted to herself and delved into the story, following Violet’s adventures at a CIA summer camp that quickly went from a safe, controlled environment to a very real incident involving terrorists and spies—and of course Violet saved the day, leading an uprising against an infiltrating terrorist faction.

  Her wit and irrepressible determination made Celeste smile, silently rooting for her with every page, spellbound by Ion’s writing. His fire resonated in every lyrical word. No wonder the world had fallen in love with his books. With Violet. Violet was everything Celeste had wanted to be, as a girl. Brilliant. Confident. Self-possessed. Utterly certain of her goals. Not afraid to be herself, stand up for something, reach for what she wanted. A lot like—

  Lily.

  It clicked with sickening sharpness. In high school, Lily Sorensen had embodied everything Celeste idealized about the perfect girl, and Violet was just like her: lovely and bright and carefree.

  Violet.

  Lily.

  Both flowers for names.

  God, she was stupid. He wasn’t over Lily any more than Celeste was over him. He’d written an entire series about Lily, because he couldn’t let go. That hand on his arm, that night…the way he’d bowed toward her, their silhouette. She wondered if that had made Paris special for him, too.

  It shouldn’t make her so bitter to know she wasn’t the only one who’d never gotten over high school.

  She closed the book. She couldn’t read another word. It shouldn’t matter, but it made her remember too much about the past when she was happy with now. She had five days with Ion; then she’d go home. She’d move on, and so would he. She’d never see him again, or care that he might still be in love with someone more perfect than she could ever be.

  And when she saw Lily at the reunion, she’d smile and be happy to see her. If the woman she was now was anything like the girl she’d been, she deserved Ion’s love.

  For the millionth time, Cel…grow up. Maybe he’s over her; maybe not. Maybe their friendship inspired the story.

  Maybes don’t matter. Maybes aren’t real.

  Five days. That’s what’s real.

  Make them count.

  She set the book on the coffee table and wrapped her arms around herself. Hours had passed while she’d read, but Ion was still typing, locked on his screen. The clock on the wall read just after two a.m. She should try to sleep, if she intended to be in any way coherent tomorrow. But right now, with this hollow twist in the pit of her stomach, she didn’t want to sleep alone—but didn’t want to turn to him for comfort. Didn’t want him asking why she needed it. Didn’t want to need him that way, when it would make it harder to walk away on Sunday.

  She rose and made her way to the glass balcony door. Ion glanced up as she passed, and offered a distracted smile that said he only half-saw her; she brushed his shoulder, then slipped outside. An early spring chill lingered in the night air, and she shivered as she made her way to the balcony railing, cement floor icy under bare feet. This time of night was her favorite. The stars were clearest, the moon brightest, the night so very still when everyone was asleep, leaving only the sighing sounds of a restlessly slumbering city.

  Leaning against the railing, she breathed in the night’s scent and tilted her head back to bask in the moonlight on her face. Just looking at the stars was like touching magic—and eased the tight knotting below her ribs, clearing her mind and leaving her at peace.

  She didn’t know how long she remained, watching the sky and picking out familiar constellations, before the door slid open at her back, rasping against the frame. She glanced over her shoulder. Ion stepped outside, hair even more wild, as if he’d been running his fingers through it. His gaze raked over her appreciatively.

  “I see London, I see France…”

  She realized the shirt she’d stolen had ridden up when she’d bent to lean against the rail. Clearing her throat, cheeks hot, she tugged the hem down over her bottom. “Been hearing that one since college.”

  With that rumbling chuckle that made her tingle, he stepped close, slid his arms around her waist, and leaned into her, bare chest pressed close against her back; his heat chased the night’s chill away, breath burning against her nape as he nosed her hair aside to kiss her throat. “So you make a habit of flashing your panties, Miss London?”

  “Mm. Better than flashing what’s underneath.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  “You would say that.” She leaned against him, eyes lidding. She liked how small he made her feel. Most of the men she’d dated were her height or shorter, until she lumbered around them like an awkward giant. Some even complained about her height. She let herself melt into Ion, relaxing as he stroked her stomach. “How did the writing go?”

  “Good,” he murmured, lips warm against her skin, turning the syllable into a kiss. “Better than it has in a while.”

  “Do you always write until insane hours of the morning?”

  “When I can. Sleep is for the weak.”

  “Call me weak then, because I’m sleepy.” She yawned and rubbed her cheek to his shoulder. “Though I read a little while you were busy.”

  “What were you reading?”

  “Like you don’t know.”

  “I like to pretend humility.” His laugh rumbled through her, vibrating through his chest and against her back. “How are you and Violet getting along?”

  Celeste searched for an answer, struggling to be honest with herself, to push aside the hurt of realizati
on. “I like her,” she admitted, and pulled her glasses off to toy with them with her teeth. “She reminds me of someone I knew, growing up.” She bit her lip, wanting to ask, yet afraid. “How’d you come up with her?”

  There it was—that tension, subtle yet informing every line of his body, hard against her back. “Old memories, mostly,” he said. “Things I need to let go. Writing is how I get it out. Catharsis.”

  “Sounds like something you don’t like talking about.”

  “No point. It doesn’t help.” He caught her hand, pulling her glasses gently away from her lips. “Why do girls with glasses always chew on them? I knew a girl in high school who’d chew hers ragged.”

  I wasn’t that bad, she started to say, but bit her tongue and crushed down on that little rush of breath just because he’d noticed, so long ago. “Mm…don’t know. Might be some kind of oral fixation.”

  “I like the sound of that.” He held her that much tighter, fingers curling against her sides. His mouth found her earlobe and nipped, the soft scrape of teeth igniting something tight in the pit of her stomach. “How sleepy are you?” he breathed.

  “Very,” she whispered, and trembled as she realized what he wanted again, the hard pressure against the small of her back burning through flimsy cloth.

  “Very?”

  “Someone exhausted me.”

  His hand strayed down, rough fingertip grazing the sensitive dip where her inner thigh joined her body. “You seem awake now.”

  “Oh God, Ion.” Her knees turned to water as he stroked and teased, bit and licked, coaxing a hot, pulsing response when she’d thought she had nothing left. “I can’t,” she gasped, voice breaking. “Not again.”

  But when he bit her throat, teeth capturing the vulnerable flesh just over her pulse, the heat of his mouth sealing against her skin, she knew she wouldn’t tell him no. Not when he could ignite her like this. Not when he’d gotten so deep under her skin. His teeth grazed her flesh, rousing sharp shocks; she sucked in a breath and held it when he bit down just enough for a jolt of pain to bring her body alive with a deep, tingling pull, until her nipples rose hard against the too-stark texture of the shirt and her panties tormented, rubbing slick and still soaked from what he’d done to her before.

  “I think you can,” he murmured as he drew her around to kiss her—and she gave herself over to his mercy for the rest of the night.

  CHAPTER NINE

  HOW SHE CAN SLEEP THROUGH that? Ion wondered as, for the third time, Celeste’s phone rang from the clothing heaped on the floor, finally dragging him completely from his drowsy haze. He should wake her, but a jealous, possessive part of him didn’t want to. Anyone calling at five a.m. would probably upset her, put that stark fear in her eyes again, and take her away.

  And the more he learned about her, the more he realized he didn’t want to let her go.

  But she’d said it was a family thing. Could be an emergency. He pushed himself up and looked down at the woman tucked into his arms, with that night-dark hair spilling over the deep gray sheets. She had pressed so close in her sleep, hand resting slim and pale against his chest. He captured it, holding it there for a moment longer before kissing her palm.

  “Cel,” he murmured. “Wake up. Your phone’s ringing.”

  She mumbled and buried her face in his shoulder, a heavy exhalation washing over his skin. With a laugh he nibbled her fingertip, tracing it with his tongue before letting go. “Cel. Wake up,” he repeated.

  Groaning, she cracked one eye open. “…if you’re waking me up for morning sex, it’s not happening.”

  “Maybe later. Your phone’s ringing,” he said, just as it started again.

  Her head snapped up; her eyes widened, whites showing all around. “What?”

  “It’s been ringing for—”

  “Oh God.”

  She scrambled over him, diving across the bed in a tangle of sheets. He tried to move out of her way and got a slender foot to the ribs for his trouble, her heel spiking right below his sternum. His breath wheezed out on a grunt. She tumbled from the bed, dug through their clothing, and came up with her phone.

  “Hello?” she gasped, her brow furrowing, eyes bright and glistening with fear.

  Rubbing his chest, Ion leaned against the headboard, watching the color drain from her face again. Just like last time. That same look of dread, as if these phone calls were a reminder of some terrible fate, a guillotine that could drop on her lovely neck at any moment. He wanted to pull her into his arms, just be there even if she wouldn’t let him help, but right now he didn’t want to think about the possibility that she might pull away and look at him that way.

  Like he was part of the problem, instead of a helpless bystander.

  He caught a panicked female voice on the other end of the line. Celeste listened, frozen, still as a small animal in the brush until she said, “Where? No, I sent you the schedule. I emailed it, but—” She paused, lips trembling. “Did they hurt him?” Her face crumpled, and Ion fought to hold himself in place when wetness gleamed on her lashes, dim in the predawn gloom. She pressed her fingers to her lips; her throat worked in a visible swallow. “Oh…God. I’m sorry. I can come—” She frowned. “I’m serious. This is more important.”

  She glanced up at him, catching his eye. For a long, wretched moment she stared at him, her eyes so stark, so pale, dark lashes shivering like pine needles in a winter breeze. Just that moment in which he would do anything to ease that look in her eyes, before she shuttered herself behind a thin mask of impassivity and stood, turning away.

  “Look,” she said, reaching for her jeans. “I need to get back to my hotel. I’ll call you from there and we’ll sort it out, all right?” She paused. “Because I’m not, that’s why.”

  One-handed, she maneuvered hastily into her clothing, balancing on one foot and almost falling; once again he fought to keep from going to her, steadying her. It wasn’t his business, and she’d been clear: she didn’t want him involved. He was barely a stranger and just because this strange click, this pull, tugged on him as if he’d known her his entire life…it didn’t mean she felt the same.

  With a sigh, he tilted his head against the headboard and closed his eyes.

  Tell me this isn’t some kind of high school infatuation.

  Had to happen some time. Finally falling victim to the very tropes he wrote about.

  He preferred his irony as a literary device. Not part of his life.

  “Soon,” she said. He opened his eyes as she hung up her phone and turned to look at him, mouth set in a tight line that did nothing to hide her distress. “I have to—”

  “Go. I know,” he murmured with a smile. “I’m picking up the pattern.”

  She winced and tangled her fingers together. “I’m sorry.”

  He couldn’t stand it. She looked so fragile, so vulnerable, as if she’d break under her secret at any moment—and she was just waiting for him to add to the crushing pressure with the weight of his irritation. He slid out of bed and gathered her into his arms, resting his chin to the top of her head.

  “Don’t be sorry.” He kissed her brow, lingering against the soft skin. Remembering this moment, for his collection of instants that defined his memories of what made a person whole. She stiffened, then melted with an exhalation that left her pliant, leaning on him heavily. He let her, holding her up as long as she needed, bending to kiss the shoulder that peeked past her sweater. She still tasted like the salt sweat of last night, warm on his tongue. But as she took a broken breath and drew back, he said, “It’s a little early for your workshop.”

  Her gaze darted to his, then sideways. “I have some setup to do.”

  She was a terrible liar. It almost made him smile. “You don’t have to lie just because you won’t tell me the truth, Cel. I heard everything.” He touched her cheek, then made himself let go. “It’s okay. You don’t owe me any explanations.”

  “I just—I—” She bit her lip, then shook her head, steppe
d back, and scooped up her shoes. “I’m sorry, I really am. I’ll call you, all right?”

  “Sure.”

  She stopped. Something sparked in her eyes. The only warning before she stepped close, curled her supple, warm hand against his nape, said “I will,” then pulled him down to kiss him.

  She rose up on her toes; her lips slanted soft and sweet against his, inviting him into the heat of her mouth. He lingered as long as he could, with her fingers slipping through his hair until cool shivers washed over his skin and her every secret depth opened for him. She tasted like he imagined starlight would, luminous and airy, and he savored her—not knowing when he would taste her again, when she would allow him back into her life for a few more moments before she was gone.

  When she drew back, her lips gleamed rosy; her eyes darkened in that way that so compelled him, dilated and smoky and looking at him as if he held the key to her heart in his clumsy hands. He smiled and brushed her hair from her shoulder, lingering on the fine, pale curve of moonstone skin.

  “I believed you, you know.”

  “I know,” she murmured with a quirky grin. “I just wanted an excuse to do that.” She tugged her heels on, then snagged her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and backed toward the door. “Later, Ion.”

  He watched her until the door closed, then shook his head and padded into the kitchen to make breakfast. He was starving. He was also an idiot—but right now idiocy felt pretty damned good.

  It wasn’t until he’d tossed together a few warm croissants in a cinnamon glaze that he remembered just why he was so hungry, as he forced himself to swallow a flaky, crumbling bite that tasted like oily blacktop. He stared down at his plate.

  “Damn it, Cel.” He shook his head with a laugh, then covered the plate, stowed it in the fridge, and headed to his laptop. He’d pick up some ice cream later. Better than starving.

  But as he settled at his computer, he forgot his ravening belly. A torrential rush of words flowed forth in tumbling spate, nearly taking control until he rode the wave with a breathless intensity, straining toward the screen. It was always like this, when it was good—but he couldn’t remember the last time it had been this good. The words came in a rhythm like music, building into high, crashing peaks of prose that painted his Violet in bold, daring strokes.