I’m sticking to water. If I drink wine in the afternoon, I’ll end up face-planting into my canvas, and then Giselle will swear off hiringAmericangirls ever again.
“I made a video of myself polishingThe Slaveby Michelangelo,” Jean says proudly. “Nearly half a million views on TikTok.”
“That’s because you took your shirt off,” Cece shoots back. “I don’t think the people who watched were interested in Michelangelo.”
“Oh, Jean, are you making thirst traps?” I tease.
He smirks. “Art needs attention. I’m giving the masses what they want, an insight into art restoration.”
“Mon Dieu, Jean.” Cece rolls her eyes. “The only thing you’re restoring is your ego.”
I laugh at that. The French, I’ve learned, have a wicked sense of humor—one I’ve come to enjoy.And they make damn good lovers, too. Something I’d enjoyed even more.
“So, how has your first official week at the Louvre been?” Cece picks up a fry and drowns it in mayonnaise. They eat their fries with mayo here. As strangeas that was when I first got here, I’m getting hooked on it myself.
I grin. “Amazing. In all honesty, it’s like I snuck into Heaven and no one’s noticed yet. I mean…I get to work in the freakingLouvreon a freakingCarriera.”
Cece nods somberly. “You know it’s interesting seeing this from your eyes. One gets so used to how…rote life is, and we forget that we do work atle Louvre?*.”
Jean lifts his glass. “À la belle Américaine?*, who’s helping us see things afresh.”
“LikeEmily in Paris,” I suggest with a wink. They claimto detest the show, but I know they watch it religiously.
We settle the bill and spill back out into the sunshine.
The Cour Napoléon is vibrant with tourists angling for the perfect shot of the Pyramid, children licking ice cream cones, and men with sketchpads trying to sell caricatures for twenty euros a pop.
We walk together toward the staff entrance, Cece and Jean bickering cheerfully about whose restoration project is more important, their voices ricocheting between French and English.
I lag a little behind, tilting myface up to the sky, soaking in that golden Paris sunlight that makes everything look like a painting.
My eyes sweep around and…I seehim?
At least, I think I do. Tall, broad-shouldered, in a dark suit, cutting a line against the crowd. The tilt of his head, the way he walks.
It jars me.
My heart thuds.
For one wild second, I’m sure it’shim.
But when the man turns, it’s not. He’s merely another elegant Parisian with places to be.
I let out a shaky, self-deprecating laugh, hurrying to catch up with Cece and Jean.
Clearly, my imagination is working overtime.
Because what are the odds I’ll ever see him again?
* Murderous look ( French)
* Very French (French)
* The Louvre (French)
* To the beautiful American (French)
CHAPTER 4
