“How long did it take to call that?”
“One cake testing,” I moan, sidestepping a dog defecating, with an owner, sans poop bag—jerk.
“And the Delacroix wedding?”
“Okay, I get it. You’re good at your job. But seriously—he’s not—I’m not—” I stumble. “If you saw him when Eli busted in, it was like a freakin’ light switch. The man can turn it on and off whenever he wants. That’s not real. That’s acting.”
“Okay, but hear me out.” Maria and I pause at a cross signal. A smattering of languages crowds around us. Swedish, English, French, Italian, Japanese, and Arabic meld into one harmonic, indistinguishable chatter. She leans in closer to my ear. “What if he’s used to it?”
“No,” I say flatly. “Just no.”
“Oh my goodness. His backstory. It’s real!” Maria does the Swedish version of a happy dance, which is a tiny, almost imperceptible shoulder shimmy. It draws the attention of a group of elderly women with necks wound tightly in scarves, whispering amongst themselves and peering down at one of their phones. Americans. Probably New Yorkers. Not their first visit.
“Evie, seriously! He’s so in love with you but doesn’t know what to do.” Maria squeals.
“Excuse me.” A lady with a chic grey bob puts her hand out to stop us before we cross, her thick brusque voice confirming my New York suspicions.
“The Eiffel Tower’s west of here.” I gesture, not missing a beat. “Follow the bridges. Big iron structure, can’t miss it.”
She purses her lips. “I know where the tower is. We actually have a question regarding your blog.”
“My blog?” I stammer.
“Yes, I couldn’t help but overhear, you’re the Evie fromL’Evie en Rosé,correct?” she asks, flashing her phone where the picture of Liam and me sits on top of the page. Oh. Well, this is certainly a first.
“The one and only.” Maria perks up.
“My friends and I have been following one of your self-guided tours today, but we’re currently deciding where to eat. Do you have any recommendations around here?”
I chew on my lip, thinking. “To be honest, most of the restaurants in this general area cater to tourists and are kind of bleh, but if you travel down this side road”—I point back toward Shakespeare and Co. and the adjacent park—“there’s a decent boulangerie. Well, two actually. Skip the first one, and stop at the second. You can eat inside or retrace your steps and eat at Square René Viviani and have a nice view of some cherry blossoms and Notre Dame.”
“Oh, that sounds lovely!” Another woman in the group with white curly hair claps. “How lucky we ran into you! Really!”
A third woman, stuffed in her oversized scarf, leans, and her shoulder brushes mine as a strong dose of Chanel Number Five hits my nostrils. “We’re enjoying your ‘Book Lover’ homage tour. You should map out some more of these for our next trip.”
“Will do.” I blush. “Oh, there’s another church on the backside of the square too. Église Saint-Julien-Le-Pauvre, not much on the outside, but worth a gander inside if you like twelfth-century architecture.”
“Perfect. See? That wrong turn was a blessing.” The curly white-haired lady laughs. “Oh, and honey, if she’s talking about the boy you posted to your blog this morning, listen to your friend: he has every marker of a man in love, and he’s pretty cute too.”
“Agreed, but not as cute as my Andrew, if you’re ever in Ohio,” the stuffed scarf supplies.
“Andrew’s in jail, Beatrice. Stop trying to pawn him off on unsuspecting woman.”
“He’ll be out in two more years on good behavior, and he’s a doctor.”
“No, he’s not, Bea.” The gray-haired lady groans. “That’s why he’s in jail.” She rolls her eyes. “Sorry, we’ll let you two be on your way, but thank you again.”
“What a nice little pick-me-up.” Maria huddles back into me.
“Yeah—that was something.” I glance back at the three ladies heading toward Shakespeare and Co.
“And they agreed with me. The man’s in love and clueless.”
“He’s anything but clueless.” I shake my head.
Maria hasn’t been around Liam enough to understand how calculated that man’s actions are, even if they come across as effortless. Changed, grown up, whatever he is now, I’m still not ready to declare him naive about anything.
I’ve given him the benefit of the doubt too many times, and it always blew up in my face, like when he failed multiple math quizzes and I agreed to tutor him before an exam. The black holes on his cheeks, full pouty lips, and flirty touches under the disguise of forced proximity distracted me well into the dead of night as I fantasized about realities that were just that. Fantasies.
