A Second Chance at Paris

by Cole McCade

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. He cupped her cheek. “I’ll always remember what matters most, starlet.” He kissed her brow, scratchy with the salt-and-pepper rasp of his beard. “Go get ‘im.”

  “But what about—”

  “Me?” he finished with a snort. “You worry more than an old woman. I’ll be fine. Betty already said I can crash next door on her couch. She likes feeding me even more than you do.” He nudged her shoulder. “Go.”

  She grinned, gave him one more tight squeeze, then dashed for the kitchen and snatched the envelope. When she tore it open, a plane ticket spilled out—and a boat ticket stamped for the midnight tour, tomorrow night.

  And her flight left in four hours. That wasn’t even enough time to convince the TSA her shoes weren’t weapons of mass destruction.

  Her heart nearly burst as she stared down at the tickets. He really can’t just do things with a simple phone call, can he?

  She stuffed the tickets back into the envelope and ran for her room to fetch her bag, tearing off her lab coat as she did. She had a plane to catch. A chance to fix her mistake. A new wish to hang her star on.

  And this time, she’d do it right. She’d tell him everything, and hope he understood.

  Paris, here I come.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  WITH AN EIGHTEEN-HOUR FLIGHT AND too much energy to sleep, Celeste read every book in the series with the most idiotic smile on her face. It was all there. The dyed hair. The clunky combat boots. The glasses. The freckles. Her habit of chewing pencils until her teachers made her stop, and then she’d just started on her glasses.

  Even the doodles in her notebooks, little stick-figure Violet in a rocket ship to the stars.

  She pressed her fingers to her lips to stifle a laugh, but glanced up to find her seatmate—a severe-looking older woman who’d starched her suit to the point of embalming herself—eyeing her. “Enjoying yourself?” she asked flatly.

  With a giddy smile, she shrugged. “Sorry. It’s about me. The book’s about me.”

  “Right.”

  Celeste flushed, but couldn’t stop grinning. “Sounds crazy, I know, but he wrote it about—” She broke off when the woman just looked at her, and ducked her head sheepishly. “It’s just a good book.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  Torn between cringing and laughing, she shut her mouth, looked away, and scrunched herself into her seat to watch the stars flow past, hugging the books close as the plane carried her into a bright, wintry Parisian afternoon.

  She collected her bag and stepped from the airport into chill air that turned her breath into smoky streams. The first snow hadn’t fallen yet, the sky clear and blue. She had hours to kill until midnight. She pulled her phone from her pocket. She should text him. Call him. Let him know she was here.

  Nah. He’d let her stew for eight months. Eight months to get a book through production and onto shelves in the hopes she’d see that little stunt of his. Lily had given birth—and broken Jake’s hand in the process—before Ion had said a word. Even if she might have deserved to suffer just a tiny bit, eight months was long enough that he could wonder for just a few more hours.

  Besides, she had things to do and people to see. She hadn’t just come here for Ion.

  She was here because she didn’t damned well give up. Not on him. Not on her dreams.

  Not on anything.

  She found a hotel near the airport, dressed in her most sleekly professional interview suit, and took a cab to the campus where she’d taught her workshops—with her resume and business cards in hand. The administrators remembered her on sight, and any hope of professional formality died when they teased her about the explosion, shaking her hand with warm laughter and inviting her in to chat.

  To her surprise, she discovered several of the student attendees had asked after her, wondering if she was a new faculty member. The administrators hadn’t bothered to tell her when they’d thought she was only in Paris temporarily. But now, over coffee in a sleekly oak-paneled office, the department head gave her a thoughtful look.

  “Have you considered teaching, Miss London?” she asked, English smooth, accent barely noticeable. Dr. Mary-Louise Renaud exuded cool, professional dignity—a thin veneer over the spark of mischief in her eyes. “Catastrophes aside, you’re quite engaging with an audience. People pay attention. Students would pay attention. And your credentials are excellent.”

  “I…I’ve never really thought about it,” Celeste stammered.

  “Do think about it, if you’ve plans to stay in Paris.” The woman’s eyes gleamed. “And leave your CV. We’ll talk soon, you and I.”

  Celeste walked out feeling like she could lift right off and float away, and treated herself to dinner at the sidewalk café where Ion had taken her that first night. She lingered over her drink and watched the tour boats pass, hours ticking by too slowly. An hour before midnight, she went back to her hotel to change: her nicest jeans, stylish boots, her prettiest shimmery sweater over a camisole. She was hoping for effortlessly beautiful, but probably came closer to J.C. Penney scavenger heap. It was eleven thirty when she stopped fussing, fastened her necklace on, and headed out with her heart in her throat.

  She made her way to the same dock where she’d caught the boat that first night in Paris. People lined up ahead of her, but she didn’t see Ion’s familiar figure. Maybe he was already on board. She stood on her toes, trying to see the top deck of the boat, but there was no one in sight.

  The line crept forward while she fidgeted and reached into her pocket to clutch her keychain so tight it dug into her fingers, the chain wrapping around her knuckles until they hurt. She could do this. Ion wanted her here. At the very least she could say she was sorry, come clean, and hope he’d meant it.

  Hope he’d meant he loved her, and it wasn’t just a publicity stunt to sell more books.

  It was almost midnight before she reached the front of the line; the man behind the counter—his nametag read Jean-Paul—gave her an odd look, but said nothing. Maybe she looked different in full-color grown-up clothing. She climbed the ramp to the lower deck with a searching look around, then darted up the stairs to the top deck and spilled out beneath a winter sky filled with stars.

  “Ion?” she gasped breathlessly.

  He wasn’t there.

  She turned, scanning the upper deck, but she was alone save a family clustered at the railing, exclaiming over the illuminated spire of the Eiffel Tower. Sickness clawed up the back of her throat, shrilled over her nerves, walked cold fingers along the base of her spine. He wasn’t here. He hadn’t come. Maybe she’d boarded the wrong boat. Maybe he was hiding onboard, waiting to surprise her. Maybe he’d thought, when she didn’t call or text, that she wasn’t coming—though he’d said he’d wait, he’d wait forever. Maybe…

  …maybe he’d changed his mind, and couldn’t forgive her after all.

  Her legs wouldn’t hold her anymore. Breathing shallowly, she dropped into a seat. She’d been stupid to get her hopes up. She’d lied to him. Even if she’d had her reasons, even if it had been an honest moment of stupidity without malice, every moment she hadn’t told him had made it worse. It didn’t matter that the love behind the lie had been more real and raw than anything she’d ever known, overpowering her with its burning depth. She’d screwed up, and couldn’t take that back.

  She took her phone out and stared at it, then shoved it back in her pocket. She didn’t want to hear his voice when he said I take it back, but thanks for the sales bump. She wasn’t ready to face that. Not yet. She’d call him once the lump in her throat settled, and she could stand the sound of his voice without bursting into tears.

  Just to hear him say it, find a little closure, and move on.

  With a bitter smile, she tilted her head back to the sky. “Hey,” she whispered. “If you’re still granting wishes, I could use one more right now. Or at least a second chance at the first.”

  Nothing. No scuff of a booted foot against t
he deck. Ion wouldn’t magically show up to sweep her away, this time.

  She was alone.

  The boat glided along the river. She watched the city slide past, numb to its beauty. People moved around her, happy couples and families, tourists snapping photos, while she remained an island of misery, motionless while the sea of their enthusiasm crashed against her. She’d get past this. She’d gotten past it months ago, when she’d picked up her life and done what was necessary to get by. This was just a minor setback, and she’d get over it.

  But right now, it hurt.

  The dull throb pulsing below her heart hadn’t faded by the time the boat pulled into the dock. She watched people stream toward the stairs, then got up to follow. She was last off the boat. Ducking her head, hunching into the collar of her coat, she stepped down the ramp and into the chill evening wind.

  “Celeste?”

  She jerked to a halt so fast she nearly fell. Her head snapped up. Her gut clenched. A tight shiver ran through her, half dread, half hope. “Ion?”

  Ion stood on the dock, breathing hard, hair a wild mess, eyes alight. The reporter she’d seen on TV waited with a microphone, an entire camera crew arranged behind her—with every camera and light turned on Celeste. She froze, staring from the cameras to Ion to the reporter and back to him.

  “What—”

  Before she could say another word, he crossed the distance between them and pulled her into his arms, enveloping her in a tight, grasping hold while a dozen shutters clicked and flashes lit up the night. His breath rushed hot over her skin; he buried his face against her throat.

  “I’m sorry,” he gasped out. “I’m sorry. That damned reporter made me miss the boat.”

  Stunned, Celeste slowly lifted her arms to curl them around his shoulders, while the lights blinded her and the reporter droned like a mosquito in the background and a small crowd of tourists gathered. She half-feared he would disappear if she touched him, a figment of her imagination. But he was warm and solid and real, and God, he felt so good. The painful gap in her heart filled, flooding with love, overflowing like a river in a monsoon. With a low sound she clutched at him, pressing her cheek to his hair.

  “Ion,” she murmured. “Ion, Ion…”

  He stole his name from her lips with a kiss. In front of the reporter, the cameras, the cheering tourists; in front of the flashing lights and under the glowing stars he kissed her, taking possession of her senses as if they were the only two people in the world. For her, they were. She’d been waiting for this kiss for months. For years. The kiss that said he wanted her. He cherished her. He forgave her. He loved her, and not even her mistake would change that.

  He left her dizzy, clutching at him—until he lifted her up and swung her around, laughing. “My God, Cel,” he breathed as he set her down, smile lighting his face, alive with that wild Gypsy beauty that made it so very hard for her to look away.

  She couldn’t help an answering smile as she traced the curve of his lips, needing to touch it to believe that smile was for her. “I thought you hated being on camera.”

  “You’re worth it. I’m not ashamed to let the world see how I feel about you.” Wicked humor gleamed in his eyes. “And giving that damned vulture an exclusive got her to drop the story about the translations, and print a retraction.”

  “I can’t decide if that’s brilliant or utterly mercenary.”

  “Let’s call it ‘evil genius’ and leave it at that.” He laughed, eyes glittering. “Thank you for the books. They helped.”

  She slapped his chest. “You could have said something.”

  “Didn’t want to ruin the surprise.” His smile faded. He fell still. His fingers slid into her hair, stroking slow and soft. “I can’t believe you came.”

  “You thought I wouldn’t?”

  “I wasn’t sure. After what I said, and how long it’s been…”

  “I deserved it.”

  “No. No, you didn’t. I barely let you explain, and wouldn’t listen. It was cruel of me not to trust you.” With a ragged sound, he rested his brow to hers. “Cel…I keep turning away from you when all I’ve ever wanted is to have you. And you’re here.”

  “I’m so confused.” She swayed into his warmth. “That night you went with Lily, and I thought you wrote all those books about her. Only it turns out they’re about me and I—”

  “Lily.” He blinked, brows twisting. “You thought they were about Lily? The purple hair didn’t tip you off?”

  “Mine was blue, thank you. Lily? Violet? Both flowers?” At his blank look, she colored. “She was there—and I heard about the fight with Jake. I thought he was upset that you were with Lily.”

  “It wasn’t over Lily.” A wry, shamefaced smile curled his lips. “It was over you.”

  “What?”

  “He called you that name. It infuriated me. I hated hearing it. It was cruel and thoughtless, and I loved you.” His eyes softened. “I love you.”

  She stilled, eyes widening. Hearing him say it aloud nearly broke her. “Say it again,” she whispered.

  “I love you.” He cradled her face in his hands. “I love you, I love you, I love you. I’ll say it as many times as you want.”

  “Maybe one more time,” she said, but didn’t give him the chance. She stretched up on her toes to kiss him—to taste the words, to drink them from his murmuring lips, to fill herself up until she nearly burst with joy. She might never be able to get her head out of the stars and stop dreaming, but that was okay.

  She’d found someone who could dream with her, instead of dragging her down to earth.

  But the clicking cameras and the reporter snapping directions—and was that applause?—forced her back to reality. She made herself break their kiss but still leaned close, savoring his presence. Savoring him.

  He held her just as tight, but one hand caught the dyed lock of her hair and coiled it around his finger with an appreciative smile. “Blue.”

  “I wanted to do something brave.” She laughed. “Baby steps first.”

  “You’ve always been brave, Cel. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be who you are.”

  “No—you were right. It was cowardly not to tell you the truth.” She shook her head. “I still feel awful for lying to you, but it wasn’t just about me. You remember my dad, don’t you?”

  “Called him, didn’t I?” She could have smacked him for that smirk, until his eyes softened. “He’d come to speak at school sometimes. I loved hearing him talk. He always had such passion.”

  “Yeah.” She struggled to keep her smile, but it was hard even with euphoria blunting the sharp edges of pain. “He has Alzheimer’s. It’s not advanced yet, but it’s bad enough. Sometimes he forgets me. Or places he’s been, or everything he knew about something he loves. It…it hurts him. He’s a proud man. And if you knew me, and I had to explain about Dad and the phone calls…” She lowered her eyes. “I didn’t want you to think of him as this sad, lost old man. I wanted you to remember him as who he was before.”

  “He is still who he was before.” Ion nudged under her chin, guiding her gaze up. “A respected man with a daughter who loves him enough to put her life aside for his. Everything he’s done to earn that love is still real.”

  “I should have trusted you. Told you. Something. I was scared. No one ever understands. They got tired of him needing me.”

  He frowned. “Hasn’t anyone offered to help?”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Why wouldn’t they?” Anger darkened his face, before it smoothed. “Cel…if your father is part of your life, I want him to be part of mine. That’s what relationships are about. Life doesn’t start when you meet. Lives intersect and mix and mingle. Instead of converging on a single point, they come together in a knot of each other’s entanglements.” He captured her hand and lifted it to his lips. “I could think of worse things than to be tangled together with you.”

  She grinned. “You know, for a bestselling author, that was a crappy mi
xed metaphor.”

  “You’re deflecting again.”

  “You’re prying again.”

  With an amused growl, he leaned down. “Just tell me you love me.”

  She tangled her fingers in his hair, ignoring the cameras, ignoring the twittering reporter trying to butt in. There was only Ion, in this moment—and that was all she needed.

  “I love you, Ion Blackwell,” she whispered.

  “And I love you, Mary Celeste London Haverford.”

  “Ion?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t make me kill you in your sleep.”

  He laughed, its rumble rolling through her with a pure joy that reflected the burning, searing intensity of emotions so brilliant she almost couldn’t endure it, like looking at an eclipse with the naked eye. It burned like the sun, like a thousand stars, as if its light had reached across billions of years to shine just for her. Only this star would never burn out, because for him…for him, she would burn forever.

  “How did we end up like this, Cel?” he asked, blue eyes bright.

  “I wished on a star,” she said, and drew him down to kiss him. “And it brought me you.”

  EPILOGUE

  One Year Later

  THE GREAT WALL OF CHINA. The last stop on their summer trip, before Celeste had to return to Paris for the fall university term. She’d only seen the Wall in photos and heard her father talk about it, but she’d never imagined its sheer colossal scale. Its majesty. The beauty of green hills rolling away from this serpentine thing of wonder, the crisp scent of the air, and the mountains in the distance with their shawls of clouds. Her father leaned against the edge, his eyes half-closed, serene, liquid with memory.

  She leaned against Ion with a smile and tucked her head against his shoulder. “He looks so happy.”

  “Can you blame him?” Ion nuzzled her hair. “You’ve given him an amazing gift.”

  “He gave me so much. He gave me my dreams. I’ve always wanted to give something back.”

  “And that’s why I love you.” He nipped her earlobe; she shivered and shoved him lightly.