“Awesome. I’m looking forward to it.”
He snorts. “Harmony’s gone, Peaches. You don’t have to torture yourself anymore.”
“I’m not.” I bounce on my toes, glancing over a growing crowd around the platform. Right, so there’s my answer then. “I meant what I said earlier, about trying not to jump to the wrong conclusions anymore. So I’m looking forward to catching up and getting to know you again. If you want.”
“Oh.” His eyes widen, and a soft smile pricks the edges of his cheeks. “Yeah. I’d like that a lot, actually.”
“Great. Then. Well. Bye.” I shoot him some weird finger guns, backing away, expecting his boisterous laughter to accompany me.
But when I glance his way again, he’s just staring out at the tower, one hand stuffed in his pocket, a warm smile plastered on his face, fingers tracing his lips.
And I fight back the urge to do the same.
12
Donuts and Kisses
Thedonutcupcakechangedmy life.
Two years ago, my drunken concept for a confetti cake donut with buttercream filling and a white chocolate glaze slathered in rainbow sprinkles exploded my blog and my life. Ever since, people frequentL’Evie en Roséfor the donut cupcake, but they stay for my mish-mosh of French restaurant reviews, at-home recipes, and quirky Paris travel guides.
Until this weekend, when traffic erupted, not because of some recipe or well-planned tour, but because of a photo.
The Eiffel Tower held in a sparkle in the background.
Liam’s mouth molded to mine, casting a spell.
My foot perpetually popped.
My mom is on cloud nine.
People are obsessed. And unfortunately, so is Maria.
“People don’t just kiss like that. You see the way he’s holding you? That’s not acting.”
It’s a hard point to argue against when my lips tingle, recalling his pressed to mine like it was more than an exchange of breaths. It was a joining of the two.
If I still believed in fairytales, I’d say it had all the makings of a happily ever after.
Fortunately, my self-preservation instincts know better. Embers can flick and reignite all they want, but in the end, a fire consumes and burns everything in its path, only leaving behind the ashes of what once was. Feeding the fire never ends well.
Stress-baking is always a good idea, though, because when I’m done I have a plate of tasty treats to feed my soul with. I shake myself out of my spiral, stacking pink, white, and red macarons on a porcelain, gold-rimmed dish on my balcony. Tiny flowers embellish the tops of the shells in honor of the cherry blossoms bursting to life around the city.
Placing a glass of rosé and cheese in the background for aesthetic purposes, I snap a rapid-fire roll of photos for the blog’s cover photo. My hands tremble, my nerves recognizing what my brain refuses to. I’m going on a date with Liam today, and my body isn’t over our kiss on Friday. Unfortunate, considering everything that transpired three days ago was fake.
It surefeltlike more, though.
The picture at the end of the camera roll, now permanently ingrained into the back of my skull, calls to me. His forehead pressed to mine, lips swollen, hovering like they’re desperate for more. My fingers itch. Maybe I could peek at it one more time.
Philomène, our resident pigeon, perches precariously nearby, staring into my soul with the silent judgment only a bird can muster.
“I know it’s just a picture. No need to get your feathers in a bunch. I’ll settle.” I down the glass of rosé. “I’m sure I’m reading too much into this anyway. He’s a good actor. I don’t know why that’s surprising. He’s good at everything.”
My feathered friend coos, waddling around the balcony, pecking sporadically at the ground, until her beady eyes land on my plate, darkening with desire.
“Keep your eyes off my goods, Philomène Wilhelmine de la Roche. I’m serious.” I pick the plate up off the table, balancing it over my phone, and she cocks her head to the side. “Don’t look at me like that. You know I don’t share food.”
“Are you . . . talking to abird?”
