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“And what might that be?”
“The engraved message from Mother inside your ring. What does it say?”
Father clears his throat, telling us it is time to resume business.
“Perhaps a conversation for another day,” Malachi says, and guides my hand toward the dotted line.
The pen makes contact and the ink bleeds onto the paper as I make my decision.
Chelsea
Monday morning soon comes around. With a full day’s itinerary ahead of us we wake up at the crack of dawn. Tyler and I hurry from our Airbnb and catch the Métro, better known as the subway, and hit the streets of Paris.
The tarmac walkways are alive with locals and tourists alike. The streets are lined with shops and restaurants. Colourful awnings stand proud, and business names are depicted in fancy bold lettering.
“Come on,” Tyler prompts for what seems like the hundredth time. Whereas he hurries ahead, I amble behind and take everything in around me. He waits for me to catch up and, taking my wrist in his hand, gives me a not-so-soft tug.
“I have no idea why you’ve insisted on dragging me here. I don’t even eat breakfast,” I say, and follow Tyler into Café Blanche, a quaint French café located on the corner of Boulevard de Lefort. Green and white awnings hug the building’s exterior, and chunky wooden chairs and tables are positioned out front for al fresco dining.
“Because, darlin’, Jean-Paul just happens to make the best breakfast in Paris.”
I quirk a brow and see the not-so-subtle glances passed between Tyler and the man inside who is standing behind the till. A man with sandy blond hair and dark brown eyes. I recognise him from last night when we hit the nightclubs. I didn’t catch his name, but that was probably because Tyler’s tongue was in his mouth.
“He’s the chef, and occasionally works front of house,” Tyler informs me.
“Nice,” I say, and wave at Jean-Paul.
“Wait here. I’ll see which table we have been allocated.”
I take a step forward. “I’ll come with you.”
Tyler places his hand on my shoulder. “I’ve got this, and no offence, but you do this weird thing with your face whenever I’m talking to a guy.”
I fold my arms in front of my chest. “What thing?”
Jean-Paul approaches and, leaning into Tyler, whispers something in his ear before making his way back to the till. When Tyler’s gaze meets mine he gestures with his hand. “You’re doing it right now.”
I’m about to playfully punch the top of Tyler’s arm when I catch sight of myself in the reflection of the café window. I place my hands on my hip. “I’m smiling.”
“Yes, darlin’, but in so doing, you look like the Joker.”
I laugh and brush off his comment while at the same time relaxing my cheeks, which ache. “Okay, maybe I’m smiling a little too big, but it’s because I’m happy for you.”
Tyler claps me on the shoulder. “I’d rather you be happy for me from a distance, because it’s distracting.” Tyler waggles his brows and makes his way into the café. I don’t need telling twice and wait behind as requested.
Romantic music from a street performer fills my ears, and, turning my attention from Tyler and Jean-Paul, I make my way toward the violinist. He plays a Spanish melody, and a ballet dancer dances to his right. The performance is beautiful and intoxicating, so much so that they have a decent-sized crowd gathering around them.
I join the crowd and am so enthralled with the performance that I can’t stop the tear that trickles its way down my cheek. I feel a presence from behind and, without turning, step aside to allow whoever it is to pass.
“To watch a dance filled with emotion is like watching the soul as it bleeds.”
My mouth falls open, and I spin around. “Lucian?”
Sure enough, it is none other than Lucian Calloway, clad in a black and white striped T-shirt and navy jeans.
“What are you doing here?” I choke out.
Lucian takes a step forward so he is standing by my side. “I thought the answer to that was obvious.”
