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I pocket my phone, the hotel key, and shrug on my own windbreaker before leading her out. The Tuileries Garden is just a short walk away from the hotel. The city is just waking up. Signboards are being put onto the sidewalk outside of cafés. Awnings are being brushed and windows cleaned.
The blue city buses rumble past people walking their small dogs. Next to me, Georgia has her face up like a flower worshipping the sun.
I want to eat her up in one gulp, swallow her, and just keep her taste in my mouth 24/7.
“You have that look on your face,” she says without even turning in my direction.
“What look?”
“The mad one.”
“You’re staring at the sun.”
“I can tell. It’s like waves of heat pulsing in the air.”
Oh, baby, that’s not anger. That’s lust.
“I’m not mad. Never been further from that state.”
“If you say so.” She makes a humming noise at the back of her throat that’s so sexy I want to throw her on the pavement and fuck her in the middle of the Paris street.
She inhales. “I smell it.” A smile breaks across her face. “Churros.”
I guess the sexy noise was because of fried dough and not me. I follow her as she skips down the steps onto the broad boulevard leading toward the gardens. On either corner of the sidewalk, vendors in big trucks sell churros, waffles, hot chocolate, and vin chaud.
“Do you want any?” she asks as she scans the short menu board. The churros are sold by the half dozen.
“Yes. Get two orders.”
“So, twelve?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Ambitious, are we?” She steps forward and places the order. We wait as the vendor drops tubes of dough into vats of boiling oil. In no time, we’ve got a bag full of freshly fried churros and small cups of chocolate.
“Tell me about your grandma.”
“What do you want to know?”
Everything. “Did she travel a lot? You said that you got into traveling because of her.”
“No, her family wouldn’t let her, but we put together this huge map of the world puzzle, and when it was finished, she marked all the places in the world she loved. She hadn’t visited many of them, but she’d read about them. When she died, she left me some money, and I knew she wanted me to use it for this.” Georgia spreads out her hands to gesture at the giant reflecting pool, the alley of trees, the carefully manicured boxwoods. If this is a cover, it’s an extraordinary one, but I’m starting to think it’s not all a cover. The best lies are ones mixed with truths, and Georgia's story of her past, of her grandmother, all seem too real to be a made-up story.
“And your family?” I ask quietly even though I think I know the answer.
The brightness in her face dims a bit. “They aren’t thrilled. I don’t really fit their idea of a proper daughter. I should be home, wearing pearls and lace, not denim and boots.”
“What’s wrong with denim and boots?”
“Nothing and that’s why I’m wearing them here in Paris.” She chomps down on her churros. “What about you? Are you a black sheep or living up to your parents’ expectations?”
“My parents aren’t around anymore.” Never have been. I grew up in the foster system, went to the military, got discharged, and started working for a military contractor before finding my calling as a hired killer, but that’s not really a background I can share with Georgia. “They passed a while back.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was a long time ago.”
“Some wounds can still hurt no matter how far in the past they happened. My grandma never got over being held down. She always had big dreams, and I’m living them out for both of us.” Georgia turns to me. “So even if there are people that don’t want me in their lives, I’m still going to chase my own happiness.”
