All my life I’d dreamed of Paris. The light, the food, the art, the fashion.
Turned out it was just like high school, a bunch of assholes following me around saying horrible things.
“Les raisins,” I said to the stall owner, careful not to smile. Only fools and tourists smiled in Paris.“C’est combien?”
Transaction concluded, I fumbled the grapes into my bag, still ignoring the commentary of the guy behind me.
“Amy!”
For a moment, I blocked the sound of my own name. And then the voice registered. And the accent.
I turned, joy bubbling inside me. “Trey!” Tall and lean, dark and bronzed, wearing a pressed white shirt, untucked, and jeans. “When did you get here?”
“Flew in this morning. I went to your apartment. Your roommate—Chloe, is it?—told me you were out shopping.”
My potty-mouthed stalker muttered one last observation—something about my breasts and his dick—and blended into the crowd.
Trey scowled over my head. “Who was that?”
“Nobody.” I took his arm and squeezed it. “Oh, I’m so glad to see you!”
He looked handsomer than ever, a light scruff on his jaw. “I told you I’d stop on my way to Italy.”
“You’re so lucky.” We walked down the sunlit street, arm in arm. It felt wonderful. Safe. A happy little sigh escaped me. “I’ve always wanted to see Rome. Milan.”
“I’m going to the Ferrari factory in Modena.” He took my shopping bag, filled with grapes,saucisson, and cheese. “Do the tour, visit the track. We might put together some kind of VIP event.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You get a lot of VIP Ferrari customers in Bunyan?”
“You sound like my grandfather.”
“Do I?”
“Events like this are an incentive. Not just for the dealership, but on the commercial real estate side.”
“Okay.”
I didn’t know enough to argue with him. I didn’t want to argue with him. It couldn’t be easy, being old Mr. Laurence’s grandson. I had grown up as the Reverend March’s daughter, as Meg, Jo, and Beth’s little sister. I was so excited to come to Paris, to forge my own identity in a place where nobody knew my family or my high school reputation.Easy A, the slutty March sister. I couldn’t wait to get away from my mother’s advice, from my father’s faint, surprised disapproval.
I just hadn’t realized how hard it would be to live day after day where nobody recognized me. Or cared.
Raising my phone, I took Trey’s picture. Against the backdrop of plane trees, the light dappling his head, he looked like a print ad for Armani or Tom Ford—lean build, overlong hair, the cheekbones of a model or a poet. But there was a trace of brooding in his eyes, a hint of sulkiness around his mouth.
“There.” I flashed the photo. “Something to remember you by.”
His expression relaxed as he smiled in the old way. “Nice. Got any more?”
I nodded. “Mostly tourist stuff. Some design ideas.”
“Let me see.” I handed over the phone, watching as he browsed through shots of storefronts and flowers, stonework and graffiti. Strong lines, bold colors, vibrant bursts of imagination. He looked up, a smile in his eyes. “These are great.”
I squirmed with pleasure. “The rest are just family,” I said as he continued to scroll.
He paused. I peered over his arm at a photo I’d taken last Christmas, Jo frowning at her laptop in front of the fireplace, hair bundled on top of her head. I’d drawn a lightbulb over her head and captioned it,Genius burns.
“That’s a good one,” he said quietly.
“I’ll send it to you,” I offered.
