Marie Antoinette was right. That kiss had allowed me to hope, opened the door to new possibilities, and made it hard to focus on anything else. One kiss and I was already feeling things for Luke that I hadn’t felt in years. Maybe ever. With Beau, I hadn’t felt one-tenth of the glorious anxiety that had recently become my constant companion.
And the saddest part? It was a life-altering kiss from someone who didn’t reciprocate my feelings.
Or did he? I wasn’t sure anymore.
I’d put myself out there, only to feel the sting of rejection. But then he bought me that first-edition novel. It was a thoughtful, meaningful gift that left me completely confused.
Why would he do that if he wasn’t interested?
Was he playing with my emotions, or was I just reading too much into everything?
Or maybe—and this thought made my chest tighten—maybe he felt sorry for me. Maybe the book was an apology gift, a "thanks for the tour guide services" parting present before he disappeared back to his real life.
The bell above the door jingled, and my heart skipped when I saw his familiar blue eyes. Luke stood there in a ridiculous black wig, stick-on mustache, and goatee.
Yanking him toward the private booth, I asked, “So, how did that script turn out? Is it a blockbuster?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, slipping into his French accent. "Ah, the script. Oui, I am still... wading through it." Then, almost tentatively, "Did you get the book?"
"It was too generous." The words came out sharper than I intended. "I can't keep it."
His face fell slightly. "Please keep it." His voice softened, dropping the accent. "I wanted you to have it."
I wanted to believe him. Man, I wanted to. But accepting expensive gifts from someone who'd blown me off felt like setting myself up for more heartbreak.
"I can't." My throat tightened. "It's too much, Luke. I can't accept something like that when I don't even know what we—" I cut myself off, aware of Marie Antoinette's increasingly obvious surveillance mission.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted her inching closer and closer to our table. She was trying to be stealthy, but it was like watching a bad spy movie. First, she adjusted the salt and pepper shakers at one table. Then, she rearranged a napkin at another table. She was on an eavesdropping mission, and she wasn't even subtle about it.
I lowered my voice. "I can't talk about this here. I need to get back to work."
I glanced over at my snooping coworker, who was now “casually” dusting off a completely clean chair.
As I walked to the bar, my friend followed. “That’s Monsieur Jacques, right? Where did you say that you met him again?”
I was sick of all the lying. “At my Saturday French lesson.”
“I thought that was all high schoolers and elderly people?”
“It was—until Jacques showed up.”
She grinned. “I want to hear everything.”
Fixing a drink for Luke, I replied, “I’ll tell you later. I have work.”
Her voice followed me. “Since when hasthatever stopped you from gossiping?”
22
LUKE
I knewI’d messed up when Anna’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
She walked toward me, a martini glass in hand, but something felt off. Had I blown it with the gift? It couldn’t have been that bad. Right?
She set the glass down with a slight clink. “It’s called a Cos-NO-politan, our nonalcoholic version of a cosmopolitan.” Her voice was a little too casual. “So, do you always buy such extravagant gifts for your friends?”
“Not usually.” I smiled, watching the faint blush rise on her cheeks. “But most friends don’t make me laugh the way you do. Or call me out when I deserve it.”
