Or I temporarily opened a wormhole. I’ve seen too many Hallmark movies to rule out the power of the head wound/alternate reality dynamic.
“Sorry I didn’t turn down a full scholarship and a chance to play football at Alabama so you could find some unsuspecting man to marry,” he says, bending down to grab his coffee and toast me. “That worked out well, by the way.”
The gold flecks sparkle, colliding with my scowl as he sips his coffee with a devilish grin peeking beyond the lid.
I flinch at the poke to my open wound, carefully hiding the crack. “How’s your budding career in the NFL going? What team drafted you again?” I bat my eyelashes.
His stupid grin slides into a full agitated glare. “I tore my ACL senior year. Don’t pretend like you don’t know.”
“Believe it or not, Mr. Kelly, since I moved to Paris, I haven’t thought about you at all.” I pick a fake crumb off my leggings at my slight stretching of the truth. I thought of him more than I care to admit, but when everything crashed and burned spectacularly in my life, I blocked Liam on social media as an act of self-preservation. “And it has been glorious.”
“Ah. Well. Not being accused of having some nefarious motive every time I take a breath has been nice too.” He turns his back to me, directing his attention over the park.
Spotted with chestnut trees, Place Dauphine is one of the quieter squares at this time of the year when cherry blossoms bloom and cover Paris in a pink decadence. Of course, chestnut trees have a certain charm, but they’re understated compared to the plumes of blush-colored petals dusting Notre Dame and the gardens at Palais-Royal in April.
I peek at him, allowing myself a moment to observe him when he’s not watching me. It’s safe if I don’t let my gaze linger too long. My heart rate dangerously escalates when I do that.
His shoulders rise and fall as he regards a group of elderly men playing pétanque in the distance. The tension in his back doesn’t release after his second exaggerated inhale.
Huh. I don’t usually get tohim.
“Sorry, Peaches, that wasn’t the right way to greet you. Old habit,” he says over his shoulder.
My elevated, erratic heartbeat swells at this change of character. The Liam Kelly I knew never apologized.
He passes a hand through his hair, rounding back to me, and an errant tendril sweeps across his forehead, further adding to his rakish vibes. I blink.
He really is like staring directly at the sun—radiant and enchanting, sure, but I’m more likely to end this whole interaction well and burnt.
A soft twinkle sits in the recesses of Liam’s gaze, pinned on me, and I shift on the bench. There’s something almost sincere about the rueful way he’s staring at me that makes me want to believe maybe he does apologize now.
“It’s fine.” I sigh, too tired to care if he’s playing mind games with me. Let him try to ruin me again. I’ve got nothing left for him to take. “Just admit you lied and somehow creepily followed me here, and all will be forgiven.”
“I panicked and lied about the meeting, but I didn’t know you’d be here.” The bench creaks as he lowers his six-foot-four frame on it.
“What are you doing?” I shriek, garnering stares and an exasperated “américaine.”
“I’m sitting here. All the other benches are taken.” A low, amused rumble shakes his chest. “My word, you’re still a feral little thing, aren’t you?”
“Yes, now find another person to bother.” Sweat coats my palms from clenching them so tightly, and I unfurl my fists, wiping them clean on my pants. “You’ve already messed my day up enough as is.”
“Look, I’m sorry I’m still the worst, but if we could agree to a ten-minute ceasefire so I can eat, that would be great. I’m tired and would rather not sit next to a stranger.” The agitated set to his jaw tightens as he holds his cup and fumbles to open the box.
The self-deprecation pricks something in my chest. “Ceasefire granted.” I sigh, plucking the cup from his grasp to save him from spilling it. “But no talking. I came here for peace and quiet.”
“Fine by me.” His knee bounces, shaking his box. I wince for the integrity of whatever is inside. “What are you doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be resting?” His gaze lingers on my profile, and I shoot him some serious worry-about-yourself side-eye.
“Shutting up.” He raises his hands in mock surrender.
Crinkled boulangerie paper beckons my attention as Liam opens the box. I’m overly nosy when it comes to all things bread and pastries.
A niçoise sandwich—tuna with hardboiled eggs—rests inside the hallowed wrapping. Good, solid, practical—
He shovels a fork full of the sandwich filling, sans bread, into his mouth.
What the hell is he doing? No. He’s not—
He does it a second time.
