“What’s up?” Olivier says, pointing his chin at my phone.
“It’s Brianna,” I say, putting it facedown on the table. I shake my head, like she should know better than to bother me right now. Even though she’s my friend and it would make sense for her to check in on me during my honeymoon, especially after my whirlwind wedding. The look on her face when she clocked the size of my diamond and I told her about the sudden proposal… No one expected things would turn out so well for me. Hot husband, lots of money, and now this: Paris in the summer, wining and dining like the best of them.
I turn my phone up again. “I should text her back.”
Makes you wonder?I type. I hit Send too fast, then silently curse myself.Rookie mistake, Cassie. If Darren really wanted you back, he wouldn’t have waited until you were on your fucking honeymoon.
What kind of text was that anyway? The furthest Darren ever took me was an Italian restaurant in Albany, where we brought down the average age by twenty years and he talked me out of ordering dessert because hehad to get up early the next day. Can’t he see how much I stepped it up? Or have I still not shown him enough yet?
I let out a sigh. “Did you really mean it earlier? About making this trip special?” I ask Olivier.
“Of course, I—”
I don’t let him finish. “Good. Because I want this honeymoon to be perfect. Amazing views, lots of shopping, great food, and a lot more wine.”
I never understood why people think French wine is better—booze is booze—but I can actually taste the difference. It goes down so nicely.
I check my phone again. Darren hasn’t responded. His silence feels like a slap in the face. We were good together. Not always, but a lot of the time, and then he decided he could do better than me. It’s taking him way too long to realize how wrong he was.
“Who cares about them,” Olivier adds, glancing at my phone. “You deserve the best, Cassie. And I’m going to make sure you get it.”
I nod, unsure how to respond.Up to five years jail time, the lawyer said. That’s what I risk if this whole thing with Olivier goes pear-shaped.
When the server comes to clear our plates, Olivier seems giddy about the dessert options. I let him choose the chocolate profiteroles to share. A house specialty, apparently. They arrive a few minutes later and we each dip our spoon into the short tower of puff pastries, breaking them down to get to the cream inside. For a moment it feels like we’re goddamn Lady and the Tramp, eating from the same plate and making gooey eyes at each other. And I don’t care how Olivier looks—with his perfectly ironed baby-pink shirt, his squeaky clean sneakers, and his cropped hair—or how well he blends with all the Parisians.I’mLady. He’s just a stray I picked up in a weak moment.
After lunch, Olivier makes good on his promise. Not only that, but he gets us an Uber so I don’t have to walk any farther in my high heels. I didn’t even need to ask him. We drive to the embankments of the Seine, past forest-green stands selling vintage books, all lined up on the edge of the river.It’s summer in full swing. Sunny and bright. Girls in pretty floral dresses carrying straw baskets—I should get one of those—and guys eyeing them up and down. Couples riding bicycles next to each other while chatting away. It makes my heart swell; such dreamy Instagram content.
But that’s only the start of it.
Olivier reaches for my hand as he leads me down the path to the water, where a boat is docked. It’s double-decked and open on top. Dozens of people are already lined up to get on, their phones out so they don’t miss a moment of it.
“It’s called a bateau-mouche,” Olivier explains. “They sail down the Seine, past all of the most iconic spots in the city.”
“I can read the sign.” I sound like a surly teenager, but deep down, I’m impressed. We’re going on a cruise. How whimsical. He understood the assignment, finally.
For the first part of it, I’m so busy taking it all in—through my screen—that I almost forget why I’m here. But as I lean over the railing, Olivier’s hands wrap around my waist, startling me. He smells good: clean and woodsy.
“Cassie, can you look at me for a minute?” he says, motioning for me to turn around. I do. Now our heads are almost touching. “I know things haven’t always been easy since we met, and the wedding was… It’s not the fancy affair you had in mind. I know it was rushed. Too rushed. But I’ve been thinking about this a lot and I want this to work. This marriage—”
The boat sails underneath an ornate bridge, shadows covering Olivier’s face. His eyes seem a little shiny, like he’s tearing up.
He waits until we’re on the other side, nearing the Eiffel Tower, to continue. “We could be something more. So much more.”
I raise a dubious eyebrow.
“I’m serious,” he adds. “I mean, look at us. There’s so much potential here.” Olivier runs a hand through my hair, which is blowing in the wind. So freaking romantic. “For one, I can’t help thinking about what the innwill look like when we’re done with it,” he adds.
Ugh, he won’t shut up about that. Upstate New York is booming (his words), and New Yorkers are more than happy to pay through the roof for a chic room in the country. We already own the property—well,Ido—and the upgrades he has planned will do wonders: repainting the walls, retiling the bathrooms, and purchasing new furniture from local artisans for that rustic flair city people expect when they come to our neck of the woods. He even has plenty of marketing ideas, from his time working at a luxury hotel. It will cost a lot of money, of course, but according to my dear husband, we’ll make it back tenfold. Sometimes I wish I’d never told him about my family inn. Sometimes I wish…a lot of things, actually.
“There’s still plenty of work to do, but it’ll be so worth it in the end.” Olivier must have been rambling on about the plans for the inn, which is usually when I tune him out. “Everyone you know will envy us. I can make you happy, Cassie. Iwantto make you happy.”
My first instinct is to laugh. Where is this coming from? And why now? This was never about happiness. But what if… I mean, if I stop to think about it, Olivier did seem very excited when I told him I’d booked tickets to Paris. Not at first, maybe. At first he was stunned, silent. But then he was the one who suggested it should be our honeymoon and that we make our wedding happen ASAP before jetting off here.
“You’re lying,” I say. I know he’s good at it. A pro, even. I need to remind myself of this game we’re playing.
“I’m not,” he replies, gently grabbing my chin. “The truth is, things have changed, Cassie. I feel… I mean, we’re married. We live together. Soon, we’ll have a successful business, something we built together.”
I shake my head. Look away. What if he’s not lying?
