How could he forget? I remembered everything.
“You saved me,” I said honestly. “I survived my freshman year because of you.”
He made some sound—acknowledgment? embarrassment?—that tugged at my insides. He was so sweet. “It was a long time ago. Anyway, your family saved me.” He cleared his throat. “See you soon.”
Of course he was late. The metro stations near the parade route had been closed, and the streets were full of people. We joined the crowd streaming toward the Champs-Élysées.
Trey took my hand. The perfect gentleman, right? Protecting me from the crush.
A strange, sweet pressure filled my chest.
“Wait.” I surveyed the densely packed street. We were never going to squeeze our way to the parade route. “Do you really want to see the parade?”
Trey glanced at me, a glint in his eyes. “You got something else in mind?”
My heart beat chaotically. Chloe was out, celebrating with the rest of Paris.We could go to my place.
I swallowed the words. “We could go to the Louvre,” I suggested. “It won’t be that crowded today. Everybody’s here.”
“Is that what you want?”
I shrugged. “It’s free.” Because of the holiday.
“I’m not worried about the money.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Well, I am. I don’t want you to have to pay for me.”
His brows rose, just a little. “You March women. So independent.”
I flushed. Was he comparing me toJo? “It’s just... I’m not twelve anymore, Trey. I don’t expect you to buy my popcorn.”
He smiled crookedly. “Fair enough.”
We walked, wandering down side streets to avoid the parade traffic. Trey still held my hand, and it was all sorts of perfect: Paris in summer, layered with color and light like an Impressionist painting. The sun dappled the trees and well-tended grass of the Tuileries Garden with dots of purple and green, speckles of cadmium yellow and titanium white. A formation of military planes roared overhead, streakingthe sky blue, white, and red. At the Louvre, sightless kings and courtiers stared down from the palace facade on the great steel-and-glass pyramid that lit the underground galleries below.
“So, are you seeing anybody?” Trey asked.
Like he wanted to know. I resisted the urge to bounce. “Nobody special.”Except for you. Could I say that? He and Jo had just split up. I didn’t want him to think I was hanging around hoping to pick up the pieces of his broken heart. “Anyway, I don’t really have time for a relationship right now,” I added. “I want to focus on my career.”
He smiled a little. “Amy Curtis March, the greatest designer in the world.”
A few inline skaters took advantage of the nearly empty courtyard, zipping around tourists with phones and fanny packs.
I wrinkled my nose. “Yeah, that’s not happening.” “You’ll never be a real artist,” Mrs. Wilson had said back in seventh grade.
“It could. You’re talented. Hardworking.”
“Not as talented as Beth. Or as original as Jo. I’m trained in design, and I’m good at marketing. But I’m not a genius. I’ll never be great. So.” I tossed my head. “I’ve decided to settle for rich and successful.”
He gave a nod—almost a bow, really, an old-fashioned tribute like a character from a novel. “To your success, then.” His lovely dark eyes were warm on mine. “And for what it’s worth, I think you’re pretty great.”
I flushed. “Not selfish?”
“No. You’re going after what you want.”
“Aren’t you?” I asked shyly. “Doing what you want?”
He slanted an amused look down at me. “I work for my grandfather. I do what he wants.”
