‘I wish it were that simple,’ I sigh, and he encourages me with his eyes to say more.
‘For years I’ve been wondering what to do with my life, publishing, photography, yoga, but nothing has felt right, I’ve never found that burning passionuntil . . .’ I stop, worried that I might sound ridiculous, a dreamer.
‘Go on,’ he urges.
‘As soon as I walked up the stairs of Shakespeare and Company, I knew – this is it. I have to transform Hendersons into something as iconic as Shakespeare. The thing that I’ve been searching for has been right there, under my nose, all along.’
I pause, waiting for him to dismiss the idea, to say it’s a little fanciful.
‘And the problem is?’ he asks.
‘There’s three,’ I answer, amazed that there’s no trace of ridicule. ‘The first is my dad, who’s stuck in his ways – you’ve seen the shop, it hardly screams destination bookshop. And the second is, my dad! He thinks I should be doing something beyond Edinburgh and the bookshop, and the third is money – we haven’t got any. How does someone like me afford to restyle, rebrand and restock an entire bookshop?’
We turn on to a swanky, narrow street with well-kept apartment blocks. Flynn holds his gaze straight ahead, his chin lifted slightly, and I begin to see what Daisy meant, what I saw back at home, how handsome he is.
‘I’m sorry there isn’t the cash at the moment,’ he says, turning to face me, his eyes shining in the light of the Paris streetlamps. ‘It’s such a great location and beautiful space, it could be something incredible.’
‘Right?’ I say, thrilled that he understands. ‘Maybe I need to work on my dad, figure out how to get him out of his funk.’
‘Good luck with that!’ he scoffs, the light going out of his eyes. ‘In my experience, dads aren’t made for changing.’
There’s something about Flynn’s comment that is so sad and telling that it leaves me at a loss as to how to respond.
‘I don’t know my biological dad, and my adoptive dad’s an arsehole,’ he says eventually, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. ‘Self-absorbed doesn’t come close.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, not knowing what else there is to say, given how much I adore my own dad.
‘What you gonna do?’ he dismisses, though I sense his hurt.
We turn on to a broad green esplanade and I see the gold dome of the Hôtel des Invalides at the far end of the walkway.
‘What’s the story?’ I ask tentatively.
‘Wish I knew,’ he shrugs. ‘Barely sees my mother, rarely talks to me. He spends most of his time travelling or at his flat in London. It’s his way or the highway.’
As Flynn talks, we follow another tree-lined street leading to my first sight of the Eiffel Tower which, twinkling against the darkening sky, catches my breath.
‘Because of how my dad is, my mum needs my support; she has some health difficulties. Work wants me in London more, my mother needs me in Edinburgh. I’m torn between the two.’
‘What do you want?’ I ask, turning into the Champ de Mars, the huge park, lined with box trees, in front of the Eiffel Tower.
‘Good question,’ he laughs dryly, but there’s a tenderness, a vulnerability in his eyes that catches me off guard.
‘My family say I’m too defensive, that it gets in the way of me making lasting connections, of getting closer to what I want,’ I say, surprised at sharing something so personal with someone I barely know.
He stops and turns to me, the light of the tower shimmering in his eyes. ‘What do you want, Carly, other than your beautiful bookshop?’
There’s something in the way he asks that suggests he knows something about me that I don’t necessarily know myself.
‘Another good question,’ I laugh nervously, wanting to tell him that I’d like to be completely free of inhibitions and worries, to live up to the spirit of my name – to let go and find love, but somehow the words don’t form.
The Eiffel Tower glows warmly in the night sky, the moon rising, but Flynn’s eyes are set on mine.
‘All this not knowing,’ he says, his gaze growing more intense.
‘I guess we’ll figure it out eventually, most people do,’ I say quietly, my eyes now flickering between his eyes and lips.
He draws me closer.
