Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“Very much so.”
“Good. They’re a gift. For you to enjoy.” He holds my gaze intently, then adds, “I wanted to take you to the angels and devils costume party, Jules.”
So he did know about it. “Did you go?” I ask, crossing my fingers that he’ll say no.
“Without you? Why would I? You didn’t say you were going, and you’re the only one I’d want to see.”
That feels too good to hear. But I’ve got to be careful not to get caught up in this feeling. “Bet it would have been fun.” Maybe because it’s a big thing to invite someone out with you and your kid, or perhaps because I know how hard he’s trying to be a great dad, I add, “But this is fun too. Dinner with you and your son. I like it.”
I don’t want him to think I only like bedroom Finn, when I’m learning single-father Finn is fascinating too.
“I’m glad you met Zach. He likes you, though that’s obvious.”
“The feeling is mutual,” I say, a little bubbly on that fact. “He really goes with the flow, doesn’t he?”
Finn smiles. It’s clear he feels seen in a whole new way—seen as a father. “He lives his life in medias res. I have to think it’s because he’s had all this change. He’s learned to roll with things. He very much embraces the moment.”
“Good way to live,” I say. I’d like to live that way myself too.
“I’m sure it’s part of being seven, but I think it’s also just who he is.” He glances toward the restroom, looking for the little person he loves unconditionally. Someone he didn’t even know a year ago.
I didn’t need another reason to like the man.
But now I have one.
Great. Just great.
Later, Finn and Zach say goodbye to me on Madison Avenue, but Finn doesn’t mention seeing me in Paris. I don’t mention the pending trip either. It’s not like we’re going to make plans to meet there, to work through my European list or anything. He doesn’t even know about that.
Tonight was just one night of coincidence.
20
INEVITABLE
Jules
At the airport a few days later, I can’t help wondering if coincidence will win again.
Like at the Albrecht Mansion the night we met.
Like at An Open Book.
Will it go for a third time?
I look for Finn at the check-in desk. In security. A burst of adrenaline-fueled hope powers me on. I walk faster, scanning the gate just in case he’s there.
But there’s no sign of him.
When I board the plane to Charles de Gaulle, I still hunt, and it’s half annoying, half exhilarating. I look around for him in first class, searching for his thick head of hair, his stubbled jaw, his chiseled cheekbones. His casual grin that lights me up.
Most of all, I’m searching for the eyes that seem to know me.
The first several rows are filled with women in Chanel power suits, men in joggers and backward caps, and teens in baggy jeans.
But no Finn.
I pass the curtain, leaving first class behind me.
I let out a disappointed sigh. It was foolish to think I’d see him. Besides, he’s a first-class kind of guy, and I’m here in coach, sliding into row 21.
I sleep most of the flight, then grab my luggage and head, bleary-eyed, to my boutique hotel on a curvy street in Montmartre. As the taxi whips through Paris, I stare at the sights between yawns. When I reach my room, it has an obscene view of Sacré-Coeur, the basilica tall and proud against the bold, blue Parisian sky.
The bed’s calling to me, but so is the city beyond that window—all the things I’ve never seen and never done. My limbs feel heavy, but there’s too much to see in Paris, and too much to do for work tomorrow, so I wash my hands, splash cold water on my face, and change into clothes I haven’t traveled in.
It’s summer, so I tug on a pink crop top, and a pair of wide leg jeans. Grabbing my shades, I head out to hunt for a coffee to wake me all the way up.
A big cup I can drown my brain in, ideally.
On a yawn, I round the corner. Up ahead is a bustling square. An artist draws caricatures at an easel. Another sells silky scarves with Audrey Hepburn vibes. A string quartet plucks out a tune I don’t recognize but it feels very Édith Piaf. No one wears a beret or totes baguettes, and yet the whole street feels a little like The Rendezvous. It’s modern Paris, but with the whole vintage vibe this city is known for. The city feels both new and old—something I understand intrinsically.
At the far end of the square is a café with a red awning and, I hope, copious amounts of caffeine.
The sun is rising higher, warming my bare shoulders. I glance up at the street signs to orient myself—that’s Place du Tertre—and notice someone out of the corner of my eye. Dark brown hair with silver streaks. Broad shoulders…He’s walking, head bent, staring at his phone.