I hold his gaze, and he winks at me. I mentally pat myself on the back for not blushing.I think.After a small sip that tickles my tongue, I retrieve the photographs from my bag and slide them across the table. “I have something to tell you,” I start, a little giddy.
“Let me guess,” Louis replies. “Vivienne found pictures of your ancestor in her attic, and she gave them to you at the showcase so you could find the Degas painting.”
Giddiness gone.
“Désolé,”he says, laughing. “I couldn’t help it.”
That’s when I put two and two together. “You had something to do with this, didn’t you?”
Louis shrugs with innocence. “What can I say? Grandmas love me.”
Not just grandmas, I think. AndnowI’m totally blushing.
The waitress comes back to take our order, but I’m not ready to look at the menu yet, so she leaves us to it.
I take a deep breath. “I have something to ask you. I don’t have much spare time until I leave, but I’m prepared to go around Paris, rummage through every museum, interrogate every art collector, and maybe even break into a few attics if I have to. I want to find proof that Degas painted my ancestor. It would make me so happy if I could figure this out before I go home. Do you want to do this with me?”
Louis smiles. “Yes, Mia. I would love to make you happy.”
This is a total code red on the blushing scale, but I don’t care.
“I told my mom about you,” he says, before taking another gulp of his champagne.
My eyes open wide. “You did?”
He nods. “I told her about a beautiful, talented ballerina with a legendary history.” He pauses. “And then I mentioned you, too.”
His tone is so flat that it takes me a second to get it. I roll my eyes. “And what did your mom have to say about this beautiful, talented ballerina?”
“She loved the story. She also knows tons of people in the arts in Paris. Some she’s worked with, friends of friends…She gave me the details of a curator at the Musée d’Orsay.”
I hold my breath, excited for what’s to come. “And?”
“She has a PhD in Impressionist art, or something like that. Her name is Charlotte Ravier but I’ve been thinking of her as Dr. Pastels.”
I giggle and pull out my phone to write her details, but Louis retrieves a notebook and a pencil from his satchel instead. He opens it to a blank page and scribbles her name, phone number, and email address. Then, in a few quick strokes, he doodles a twirling ballerina with her arms straight up in the air. I smile, impressed, as he rips off the page and hands it to me, but he just shrugs in response. We make plans to call Dr. Pastels the next day, and then we don’t take our eyes off each other for the whole dinner. We order food, but I can’t remember what. It may have been pasta. Or fish. Or even a cactus plant, for all the attention I paid. None of it is as important as the way Louis looks at me. We laugh and eat, share stories, and take more sips of our champagne.
Louis protests vehemently when I remind him I’m paying for dinner, but I hold my ground.Iinvited him for a date, and no matter how much he grumbles, I count my euros, place them on the table, and tell him he can repay me by helping me find this painting.
His hand finds mine the moment we exit the restaurant. At his touch, my whole arm tingles. A few girls walk past us on their way inside and give Louis a look.Yeah, I know,I want to tell them.I can’t believe it, either.Because here’s the thing: I can’t. Since I’ve been in Paris, nothing has turned out how I imagined it would. I spent months dreaming of this summer here, but I could never have pictured anything like this, and I refuse to think about the fact that I’m leaving this all behind soon.
“I’d offer to take you home,” Louis says as we stand in front of his Vespa, “but I don’t think the night is over yet.”
I shake my head; my mouth is too dry to say anything.
“Would it be really cheesy if I took you to the most touristy neighborhood in Paris?” Louis asks with a bright smile. “We’re close by.”
No matter how nervous I get around him, he always has a way to put me at ease. “I like cheese. Especially French cheese.”
Countless stairs later, we find ourselves at the front of the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur, in the heart of Montmartre. We’re still panting after the climb up here, but it’s the view of the entire city that really takes my breath away. The sun is just setting on all the slate rooftops. I scan the endless horizon, and Louis must guess what I’m looking for, because he pulls on my hand and silently points toward the right, in the direction of the Tour Eiffel, which is just visible in the distance.
“Is this for real?” I ask.
Louis stands behind me and wraps his arms around my waist as we keep admiring the view. “I hope so,” he whispers in my ear.
I feel his heart beat against my back, and breathe him in as he leans closer. He rests his head on my shoulder, and I could stay like this all night. Actually, that’s not true: I want to turn around and kiss him, but there are so many people here that we barely have elbow room.
“Come on,” he says, breaking the spell of the moment.
