A Second Chance at Paris

by Cole McCade

  “Cel.” He threaded his fingers into her hair and drew her closer. Saying nothing, but giving so much with the warmth of his quiet understanding.

  “Sappy, right?” she managed, struggling past her tight throat. She’d let this go, accepted her mother’s death, but she had to wonder if her father even remembered that day—and the question almost broke her. She fought to keep her smile. “Your turn.”

  Dark, knowing eyes watched her, but he let it drop. “Let me think.” His fingers played against the small of her back; his eyes unfocused. “I’d lived in fourteen cities in twelve countries by the time I was eighteen. I learned Dutch before I knew one word of English.” His gaze cleared and fixed on her; a wry smile curled his lips. “And I think I envy your relationship with your father.”

  “You don’t get along with yours?”

  “Yes and no. We’re…alien creatures to each other. He’s this contradictory mix of business-minded practicality and flightiness. He made his fortune in the stock market early, so he can jet around as he pleases now.” Ion snorted. “He thought I should be like him. Buckle down, nose to the grindstone. Make my riches the responsible way, and worry about my ‘silly hobby’ later.”

  “That ‘silly hobby’ made you famous.” She remembered his father, standing on the sidelines at Ion’s soccer games: a tall man with stern shoulders, a sharply angular face, and black hair swept severely back from his brow, pinned in place by a silver streak at the temple. “And probably richer than your father.”

  “He still doesn’t see it as real. And he hates being wrong.” He laughed. Underneath the exasperation, a softness edged his voice, warm as the light of nostalgia in his eyes. “We don’t hate each other. We’re just awkward. My mother just sighs and shakes her head while we poke each other like two porcupines trying to hug.” He traced a fingertip along her jaw. “My sisters tell me to let it go. And then tease me for never being able to let anything go.”

  Celeste fought back a wince. Dread clutched her in cold fingers. “You hold grudges?”

  “Among other things.” His shoulders tightened to iron hardness under her fingers. “Memories matter to me. Not just the big picture, but little things. Like the way my older sister chews her hair, or the way you twine your fingers when you’re nervous.”

  He looked not at her, but over her head. Seeing other places. Other people.

  Seeing her, she thought. Seeing Lily. Seeing the one he really wanted.

  “Memories are what made me what I am,” he murmured, and God, she didn’t want to ask but couldn’t help herself. Maybe if he said it out loud, she’d be able to cut the strings that let him pull on her heart.

  “Memories of Violet?”

  “Yes.” Closed, wary eyes regarded her across a distance she could never cross. “Old ones I should probably forget.”

  “It’s hard to forget someone who had such a powerful effect on you.”

  “But refusing to let go can cripple you.”

  “Only if you let it, Ion.” She wished she could pull him out of that place. That tense, heavy darkness he sank into when he thought of her. Whatever it was about her that he couldn’t let go. He’d really loved Lily, hadn’t he? She hesitated, then traced her thumb along his stubbled jaw; a scared knot of tension inside her unraveled when he leaned into her like a lion basking in the sun’s caress. “Memories don’t have to be a burden. They’re like snow globes lined up on a shelf. Each one a little world, holding those beautiful emotions crystallized into a frozen moment.”

  He exhaled slowly, smile pallid. “Thought I was the writer here.”

  “I have my moments.” She kissed him; his smile grew against her lips, his shoulders softening under her hand until golden skin was like warm honey to her touch. She parted their lips and leaned into him. “Tell me something else about you.”

  “Mm…well if you want a match to your footie pajamas, I tried to start a rock band in university—but I’m a horrible guitarist and worse singer. Not enough karaoke practice, I guess.” His grin broke his melancholy like the sun after a storm. “I still throw coins in fountains and make wishes, though I know it’s superstition. Maybe it’s a Roma thing. ‘Cross my palm with silver.’ And…” His clicked his tongue thoughtfully. “I read Dostoevsky for fun even though people call it pretentious, and love to torment my Type A best friend—who happens to be my literary agent—by shrugging things off when he’s ready to pop a vessel. It’s almost a sport to make the vein over his temple twitch.”

  “That’s cruel, you sadist.” Yet she loved this. She loved that underneath that quiet, contemplative exterior was a man who could laugh at himself—and who trusted her enough to be so open. “Tell me more.”

  “Greedy.” He grinned. “I can’t really cook. I just tried the snapper to impress you.”

  “Oh.” She blinked, then smiled so wide her overheated cheeks hurt. “You didn’t have to do that to impress me.”

  “Failed miserably anyway. Snapper au boot rubber.”

  “My fault. Except it’s your fault, too.”

  “If you’re waiting for me to be sorry, you’ll be waiting a long time.”

  “I’ll remind you of that when I can’t get a job because no one trusts me not to burn their lab down,” she muttered.

  “You have a job.”

  “Do I?” She eyed him. He had that look—the one that said she wouldn’t be sleeping yet.

  He tumbled her back into the sheets. His body fit to hers like halves of an interlocking whole, and he dipped to trace a path, light as tickling breaths, along her collarbone with caressing lips, a stroking tongue, nipping teeth. “Mm-hm.”

  She closed her eyes and moved beneath him just to feel his hard weight pressing into her; just to hear the whispering hiss of skin to skin. Her arms slid around him. She traced the dip between his shoulder blades, following the flow of his spine down the lithe strength of his sinewy back. “Pretty sure this wasn’t in the original project agreement…”

  “We’re branching out.” He pushed himself up to look at her, watching her with a fire that would consume her if she let it. “Kiss me, Celeste.”

  She curled her fingers against the nape of his neck, drew him down, and captured his lips in a kiss like heartbreak. She kissed him as if she’d never kiss any other for the rest of her life. As if, as long as she had him, she could make him forget Lily.

  Forget Lily and—as their bodies ebbed and flowed like the tide, as he hissed her name through his teeth, as his face locked in that darkly brooding look of beautifully tortured bliss—remember only Celeste.

  * * *

  She wasn’t sure why dawn woke her. Maybe yesterday was still with her—that panicked phone call, after her father had forgotten where he was during a shopping trip and ended up scuffling with mall security. Ophelia had worried she’d screwed up his medication and the entire incident was her fault. Celeste had hated to tell her that sometimes, the medication just didn’t help. The hardest part was being helpless. Sometimes there were bad spells, and it wasn’t anyone’s fault but the cruel hand of time, sanding away the marks of memories printed on their father’s soul.

  She watched Ion sleeping at her side. He was a very still sleeper, all that silent energy and vibrancy locked away to make him a burnished statue, infused with subtle life just waiting to spring into motion. She’d always thought he was beautiful, but right now—lashes resting against his cheeks in dark, thick curves and full lips parted on soft breaths—she couldn’t tear herself away.

  She’d let herself get too absorbed in him. Even if she’d given herself permission to indulge, she had to remember she wasn’t here for this. She was here for a job. For a new life for herself, and to fulfill her promise to her father. If she went home empty-handed because she’d been too busy reenacting a high school drama, she’d never be able to live with herself.

  Uneasy, she looked away to watch the sun come up like a bead of amber dripping against the washed-out blue of morning, then snagged her phone from the night
stand. No texts or voicemails from Ophelia. Everything was fine, she told herself. If anything was wrong, she’d have heard by now.

  It would be late in Louisiana. Her father would be in bed, Ophelia likely worn out and not far behind, too cranky for a late-night call or text. Not to mention it would likely wake Ion, and he’d give her that look. That look that said he wanted to know, to help, if she’d let him.

  That was one of the hardest parts, too. Telling people there was nothing they could do.

  She worried at her lip and glanced across the apartment to Ion’s desk, and his laptop. Maybe a quick email. Ophelia could call when she got it. Just a little check-in to ease her mind.

  Gingerly, she eased from under the warm weight of his arm and slipped out of bed. She tugged her sweater and panties on, then skittered across the floor, hissing at the bite of icy tile against the balls of her feet. Shivering, she tucked herself into his chair, curled her legs beneath her, and flipped his laptop open. She’d meant to hop right into Gmail, but when the laptop woke from sleep, an open document came up.

  VioletSparks7-draft1.doc.

  She caught a sharp breath. His book. She darted a quick glance at the golden rises and slopes of him against the dark slate sheets, then back to the screen, nearly gnawing a hole in her lip. Close it. Close it and pretend she never saw it. Crawl into bed and just spend half an hour typing out a three-sentence email on her phone’s annoying little touchscreen. Don’t read it. Don’t read it. He’d said first drafts were for his eyes only.

  But even as she reached for the laptop to close it, a line caught her eye; she froze.

  “All around us are complex people trying to live simple lives,” Violet said. “Wanting simple things with tangled hearts. But up there—it’s the most complicated thing of all, but all we see is beauty, quiet and still. I like that. I like the stillness of the stars.”

  Celeste pressed her fingers to her lips. Her heart twisted, rough and painful and sweet, its erratic thump slamming hard. Her words. He’d committed her words to his book. She didn’t know what to think. What to feel. The tingling wash of pleasure was dimmed by the fact that he’d written this character for Lily. Her words, coming from the mouth of Lily’s avatar. She hugged herself, wishing she hadn’t read it. Maybe—

  The laptop lid slammed down with a sharp snick. She jumped, stomach lurching drunkenly. Ion stood over her, brows drawn into stone crags of simmering fury.

  “Don’t,” he bit off, low and deadly. “Don’t ever read my rough work.”

  She shrank back. “Sorry. I wanted to check my email, and it was up on the screen…”

  “It’s not anymore.”

  “Yeah.” She stared up at the unforgiving set of his mouth. “Sure. Sorry.”

  He said nothing. She averted her gaze from eyes so cold he was a stranger, an alien wearing the face of the man who’d whispered tell me something about you. Giving him a wide berth, she slid from the chair and slipped across the apartment to retrieve her clothing. He obviously didn’t want her here, and she felt terrible for violating his privacy. He remained silent while she stepped into her jeans, then stripped out of her sweater, her back to him, to tug on her camisole before layering the sweater atop.

  But as she straightened, warm arms slid around her from behind. She stiffened when he pulled her against him, his heavy sigh stirring her hair.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, gritty and resigned and thick. “Look, writing is…a very private process. I’m not even accustomed to having someone here, let alone being comfortable having them around. Normally it throws me. You? You make it better.” He rested his brow to her shoulder. “But it’s hard to stop being territorial.”

  The vise of hurt squeezing her ribs eased enough for her to breathe. “It was good,” she said neutrally. “You don’t have anything to be ashamed of.”

  “Self-flagellation is a writer’s bread and butter. It’s never good enough. Especially a rough draft. I’ll cut half before I’m done.”

  “Mm.”

  His embrace tightened; his voice softened. “You can read it, Cel. You were part of it. You deserve to read it. I shouldn’t have snarled at you.”

  With a sigh, she relented enough to lean against him. “I shouldn’t have used your laptop without your permission.” She closed her eyes and tilted her head against his shoulder. “I’ll read when it’s done, all right? Rough or not. I can fact-check for you.”

  “You might not be here when it’s done.”

  The reminder struck hard as a spear to the gut. Suddenly she couldn’t stand having him so close when it was only temporary. She pulled away, the salt taste of bitterness in her throat. “There’s always email,” she said, and held fast to her tight smile as she turned to face him. Her mouth moved stiffly, threatening to crack. “We…we could stay in touch.”

  His hands curled at his sides. He let out a rough, humorless laugh, blue eyes stricken. “From bed partners to pen pals. Ouch. One hell of a demotion.”

  She couldn’t stand that look on his face. Couldn’t stand to think it might be reflected on her own. This was insane. Only a few days, yet they acted like idiot teenagers in love.

  Little too close to home.

  She wasn’t any different from the girl she’d thought she’d left behind. Still just as infatuated; still just as stupid, to think there could ever be anything real between them.

  But she didn’t think that girl, the girl she’d been, would have lied.

  God, he would hate her when he found out.

  She looked about for something to distract her, anything to avoid meeting his eyes. Her gaze fell on a folded card on the desk, the familiar colors of their high school crest peeking from the corner. A chill tightened her skin as she picked it up with feigned nonchalance and skimmed text she already knew from reading her own.

  “What’s this?”

  “Invitation to my high school reunion.” He shrugged, hard-corded muscles bunching under his skin, fingers clenching into white-knuckled fists. “Not going.”

  “Why not?” She held her breath.

  His eyes slid off her like oil on glass and found the window. “Like I said…I need to let some things go.”

  “It’s…about a woman, isn’t it?”

  His gaze jerked back to her—guarded, careful. “How did you know?”

  She forced a smile. “It’s always about a woman. Especially with writers.”

  It was always about Lily, especially with you.

  “Mm.” Looking down, he flipped the laptop lid up and slid into his chair, fingers steepled. “I should work.”

  Celeste just stood there, legs refusing to move, rooted by a hard, hot curl of hurt that mired her in place.

  Even if he hadn’t said it in so many words, he’d just dismissed her.

  “…right, then. I should…I should go.” She licked her lips and stepped back blindly to fumble for her shoes. “I’ll find you a reference for beginner star charts for Violet, okay?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  He didn’t even look at her.

  She snatched up her bag and walked out, her heart an iron rock, weighing heavy in the pit of her stomach.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  AS SHE WATCHED MORNING BREAK over the city from the window of her cab, Celeste brooded. Because I’m a bird now. A brooding bird. No, she was one dumb damned bunny. She’d let herself get too comfortable. Lulled into thinking they were something more than strangers, to him. Like Ion trusted her enough not to close off if she touched a nerve.

  Clearly she’d been wrong. She never should have left herself vulnerable.

  This was just a fling. One week and done. It was more than sex—even if the sex was amazing, it was so much more than sex. But she had to remember it was short-lived. An illusion. One that would break when she got on that plane. One that would break her, if she let herself get too tangled up in him.

  Just let it be what it is, she told herself as she showered and dressed, opting for a severe, stylish black pants su
it, sleek and chic. She was giving a lecture on Kelvin-Helmholtz instability today. When facing down a room of respected industry professionals, she needed to be on her A game. No mistakes. No distractions. No explosions.

  And no Ion.

  She pushed him from her mind, slid her glasses on, and set out to conquer the world—or at least the job market.

  She sailed through her presentation. There was something intensely satisfying about looking over the darkened auditorium and knowing they listened to and respected her. She’d been mocked throughout her young life for being a nerd, a geek, a loser. Hairy Mary. But those days were gone, and now she was helping to build the science that could change the world.

  That made every insult worth it. The barbs had hurt, but she’d never let them stop her. Even when childish high school slurs turned into the patronizing condescension and sexism of adults; even when jobs in the U.S. had dried up, and she’d been facing a potential career change just to pay the bills. She wasn’t out of options, and wouldn’t stop fighting to make a place for herself. This was where she belonged. The rapt gazes of her audience only reinforced that.

  Yet as she mingled after the lecture, handing out business cards, talking to scientists from Thales, Airbus, and Dassault, she paused as someone brushed her arm. She looked up into the weathered face of Dr. Rutherford, her third-year Quantum Mechanics professor from university—and an old friend of her father’s. His class had always been her favorite.

  “Celeste.” He squeezed her hands. “Fancy meeting you here. I didn’t know you were the Dr. London presenting today.”

  “I’m sneaky like that.” And she’d been Celeste Haverford in college, step two in the transition toward reinventing herself. “How have you been?”

  “The usual. Always swearing I’ll retire with the newest batch of spoiled, whiny undergrads, but I never do.” He laughed. “What about you? Heard you moved back home.”

  “Yeah. Employment market in California’s not the best.”