The rattle of the doorknob on the front door jolts us both upright as Eli stumbles in.
A crease forms between his eyebrows while he’s gawking at us, caught like a deer in the headlights in the back of the room.
“And that.” I nervously laugh, pressing a hand to Liam’s chest. “That’s roughly how Rodin posed his models forThe Kiss. Thanks so much for asking about my favorite art blog post.”
Liam smirks, rubbing the scruff on his cheek. “Fascinating.”
“No. Shit. You finally told her?” A wide smile spreads across Eli’s face.
“Tell me what?”
Liam shakes his head, clearing his throat and adjusting his shirt. “Evie asked me to take her to the wedding, and given the circumstances, she thought it might be a good idea if we convinced everyone that more was going on. We were just messing around to make sure it was realistic.”
“And posing like Paolo and Francesca is the perfect way to do that!” I add.
“Right. . . ” Eli rubs the back of his head. “Well, I’m tired, so I’m going to get some sleep, and you two carry on with whatever weird-ass thing you’re doing or not doing. Lunch date after I nap?” he asks, walking by.
“Sure,” I manage, eyes flickering to Liam’s, trying to shake out of whatever the hell that was.
Eli’s door shuts with a mumbled “freakin’ weirdos.” I stifle a giggle, still frozen against the wall while Liam marches back to his seat.
“Are you free tomorrow?” he asks.
“To-tomorrow?” I stammer.
“For a date.” He opens his highlighter and focuses back down at his work like he’s ridiculously unaffected by what just happened. “I have a meeting in the morning if you’re free. We can take a picture and you can post it on your blog. I assume your mom still follows that.”
“I have to work tomorrow through the weekend, but I’m free Monday.”
“Great.” He shifts in his seat. “If you want, I can join you and Eli later for the picture. Get the ball rolling.”
“Oh, yeah, that sounds good.” I swallow.
What the hell did I get myself into?
8
Donut Dream It’s Over
“Doyouwanttotry the whole thing or the abbreviated version?” Maria quirks a brow as we halt in front of the eastern arm of the Panthéon. Corinthian columns loom overhead, bathed in the warm, shimmering light of the mid-afternoon sun.
She’s asking about our Friday ritual. A long, leisurely stroll to the bar reserved for each other. A tradition we started when Maria, a lovestruck college student, determined that the local grumpy bar owner was “the one.”
Eventually, Declan opened up and said, “Your face, I like it,” and other such swoony sentiments, and the two of them have been inseparable ever since.
Usually, I don’t have much to share, and Maria happily regales me with stories about Declan or muses over a planning snafu while I quietly soak in the unbridled beauty of Parisian architecture.
But today.
I am frightened.
Because the second-degree regarding my recent chaotic decisions is coming, and I don’t want to acknowledge the answers.
For the first time since the shorter route’s creation, I’m almost okay taking it.
Even if it means cutting out my favorite part: beginning our stroll along the Seine at Pont de l’Archevêché, a narrow three-arched bridge draped in metallic padlocks that blink alive, catching cascading sunbeams on days like today—a microcosm of heaven.
It’s a place where Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron danced inAn American in Paris.
