“I was just browsing,” I say lightly, not wanting to show how excited I am to see him. “It’s hard not to. Thebouquinistesare irresistible.”
“They are Paris.” He picks up a dog-eared volume of poetry, thumbing the cracked spine. “Did you know the firstbouquinistesemerged in the sixteenth century?”
I shake my head.
He shoots me a delighted grin. “Booksellers used to roam with baskets, until the city tethered them to the quays. My grandfather collected from thebouquinistesall his life. He said the river remembers every book sold along its banks.”
I can’t help but smile at that. “That’s romantic. Very…un-count-like.”
His mouth curves, the faintest amusement.
We walk a little, side by side, keeping a polite distance like acquaintances who happened to meet by accident.
We talk easily…which seems to be what happens when we’re together…alone.
He tells me about a stall near Pont Neuf that’s been in the same family for three generations. “I used to go there with my grandfather. He’d let me choose a book, though half the time I couldn’t read the antique French.”
I let out a breathy laugh. “My mother used to drag me to flea markets all over Los Angeles. She’d come home with boxes of beads and little glass gems, swearing they were treasures. Then she’d turn them into jewelry and then theybecametreasures.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “So, artistry runs in the family.”
“Yes. Mama taught me and my sister to find beauty in what most people overlook.”
His eyes linger on me in a way that makes my pulse quicken.
“That,” he murmurs, “is a gift.”
For a moment, it feels like maybe Paris could allow this fragile thread between us.
But Paris is never that kind.
From the corner of my eye, I see a couple emerging from the Hotel Cheval Blanc—draped in couture with the ease of people born into money. Their laughter carries, and when they spot Gustave, it sharpens into recognition.
“Gustave! Mon cher!”
His entire form shifts. The warmth drains from his gaze, replaced by something cold and practiced. He straightens, takes a step away from me, and in that instant, I vanish. Or rather, he makes me vanish.
The couple sweep toward him, kissing his cheeks, fussing over some piece of art they recently acquired, over society dinners and gossip I don’t belong to. He pretends he is alone. Pretends I am no one.
I stand there, invisible, with the river at my back and the lights of Paris shimmering across the water.
As I turn to go, I feel his gaze. A flicker over his shoulder, quick and raw, before he pastes the smile back on for his glittering friends.
It’s enough to undo me. Enough to remind me of everything he doesn’t say, everything he won’t risk.
I walk away, scarf pulled tight against my throat, the Seine whispering at my side.
“Tara,” I hear him as I step off Pont Neuf onto Quai de Conti.
I shake my head and ignore him.
No, no, no. No one gets to make me feel like this.
He grabs my arm right by Librairie Les Neuf Muses.
“Careful,” I grind out. “Someone you know may see you with me.”
Regret colors his eyes. “Please.”
