Another shrug, to show he didn’t care. “She said I was better off living with my grandfather.” A quick glance up from his plate. “I remind her of my dad, I think.”
Her son-in-law. The slacker.
I could see a resemblance to old Mr. Laurence in Trey’s long, straight nose and high forehead. But his golden skin, his wild, dark hair... Surely he got those from his mother. I reached across the table and squeezed his hand holding the knife.
Trey switched his grip, giving my fingers a quick press before releasing them. “So, tell me about Paris,” he invited, sitting back in his chair. “What have you seen so far?”
I accepted the change of subject, chatting about the museums I had visited, the places I still wanted to go. It was quickly obvious that Trey knew the city better than I did. This was not his first trip through Paris. But he listened as if my adventures, my opinions, mattered, nodding when I talked about the fashion exhibits at the Louvre, smiling at my descriptions of window shopping in Le Marais. We talked about the sculptures in the Tuileries Gardens. I didn’t tell him about my attempts to sketch there. I’d quickly learned that sitting alone on the classic park benches was an invitation to be molested by pigeons. Or worse.
Under his attention, I expanded like a flower in a time-lapse photograph. It was so easy to talk to him. No language barriers. No barriersat all. He asked about my plans and listened to the answers like he cared. Nobody in Paris cared.
Extending my postgraduation trip had been more difficult than I’d thought. I had some money saved from working retail in college. But nobody would rent to me without six months’ payment in advance, proof of employment, and a guarantee from a French bank.
“I’m hoping for a job in a boutique,” I confessed. “I have experience. And obviously, I speak English.”
“I thought you were here to play,” Trey said.
“I’m here to learn. I want to be accepted to Louis Vuitton’s craftsman training program. But that’s not happening, because I’m an American. So...” I shrugged. “I’ll sell accessories to rich tourists.”
“You’ll make it work,” Trey said. “You’re very talented.”
“Thanks.” I took a breath, returning his smile. “You are, too.”
I asked about his trip. Over dessert, he talked about Modena—not about the cars or the track in Maranello, but about the ducal palace and the piazzo in front of the duomo. I watched him greedily, hoarding details for later—the purple-red wine, the bittersweet chocolate, the play of light on his face and hands.
He paid the bill.
Outside, streetlights bloomed against the fading sky. The winding streets were lined with bars and cafés full of people drinking and smoking. “Nice neighborhood,” Trey remarked.
“Not much to see,” I said. “But lots to do.” I didn’t tell him I spent most nights alone in the apartment.
He smiled, making my heart skip. “Let’s do something, then.”
I nodded. I didn’t want to let the evening go.
We walked through narrow cobblestoned streets toward the Bastille, Trey matching his steps to mine. The first time I had visited the site of the old prison, I’d been disappointed to find a bustling roundabout with cars whizzing by. But at night, the monument in the center of the traffic blazed with light. The golden-winged statue topping thecolumn looked poised to fly. We stopped for a drink on a quiet side street. Strolled along the brown-black canals, enjoying the warm summer evening. Bursts of music, snatches of conversation, drifted from groups of students hanging out on the iron footbridges.
Being with Trey was so fun. So...easy. No Parisian men calling,Miss, Miss. No Parisian women flickering scornful looks at my hair, my clothes, my shoes. Not with Trey beside me.
Like my freshman year of high school. Trey had rescued me then, too, walking me into the high school gym under the noses of Jenny Snow, Queen of the Mean Girls, and her asshole brother and his friends.
By the time we returned to the apartment, the sky was inky black with an orange haze and my feet throbbed inside my espadrilles.
“Thanks for dinner.” I couldn’t invite him up. Chloe would be home. And if she weren’t there, if we were alone in the apartment...
“I had a good time.”
“Me, too,” I said breathlessly.
He smiled a little. “I’ll call you.”
He wouldn’t. “Sure.”
He hugged me, quick and hard, enveloping me in the scent of bergamot, like a cup of Earl Grey tea on a cold day. When he let me go, I shivered, my body protesting the loss of his warmth.
“Tomorrow,” he promised, and I ran upstairs, feeling like that statue in the plaza—on tiptoe, my heart poised for flight.
CHAPTER 5
