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But no Finn.
I pass the curtain, leaving first class behind me.
I let out a disappointed sigh. It was foolish to think I’d see him. Besides, he’s a first-class kind of guy, and I’m here in coach, sliding into row 21.
I sleep most of the flight, then grab my luggage and head, bleary-eyed, to my boutique hotel on a curvy street in Montmartre. As the taxi whips through Paris, I stare at the sights between yawns. When I reach my room, it has an obscene view of Sacré-Coeur, the basilica tall and proud against the bold, blue Parisian sky.
The bed’s calling to me, but so is the city beyond that window—all the things I’ve never seen and never done. My limbs feel heavy, but there’s too much to see in Paris, and too much to do for work tomorrow, so I wash my hands, splash cold water on my face, and change into clothes I haven’t traveled in.
It’s summer, so I tug on a pink crop top, and a pair of wide leg jeans. Grabbing my shades, I head out to hunt for a coffee to wake me all the way up.
A big cup I can drown my brain in, ideally.
On a yawn, I round the corner. Up ahead is a bustling square. An artist draws caricatures at an easel. Another sells silky scarves with Audrey Hepburn vibes. A string quartet plucks out a tune I don’t recognize but it feels very Édith Piaf. No one wears a beret or totes baguettes, and yet the whole street feels a little likeThe Rendezvous. It’s modern Paris, but with the whole vintage vibe this city is known for. The city feels both new and old—something I understand intrinsically.
At the far end of the square is a café with a red awning and, I hope, copious amounts of caffeine.
The sun is rising higher, warming my bare shoulders. I glance up at the street signs to orient myself—that’s Place du Tertre—and notice someone out of the corner of my eye. Dark brown hair with silver streaks. Broad shoulders…He’s walking, head bent, staring at his phone.
When he looks up, he stops. Smiles. Shakes his head in amusement. My stomach has the audacity to flip.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he says, but he doesn’t truly seem surprised.
“Or maybe not,” I say. “Are we in the same hotel?”
“I’m at The Hotel Particulier Eighteenth. I arrived yesterday,” he says, then points to the same hotel as mine. Bumping into him isn’t such a coincidence then. It was inevitable. I want to ask other questions—what are you up to, how’s Paris so far, what’s caught your attention on your phone?
But I don’t have to ask the last one because he turns the phone to me. “Check this out,” he says, showing me a photo of Zach and his cousin David roasting marshmallows over a campfire. Out of nowhere, tears well in my eyes and I’m not even sure why. Maybe it’s the travel. Or the jet lag. Or my need for caffeine.
Maybe it’s just that it’s a sweet photo of a happy kid, who does, indeed, roll with life’s big changes—mom to no mom, no dad to dad.
I swallow the tears, but there’s emotion in my voice when I say, “More, show me more.”
Finn gives a soft smile, then flicks to the next photo. An RV.
“And they’re not camping. They’re glamping,” I say, laughing as I accuse him.
“My mom’s idea, apparently. She said she endured enough of my father’sroughing itcamping trips when Nick and I were kids. She’s not doing it now.”
I lean a little closer. “Confession: you’d never catch me camping.”
He lifts a skeptical brow. “Never?”
I shake my head then flick my hair. “I like my flat iron, my running water, and my soft pillows far too much. Also, coffee.”
“You can make coffee camping,” he points out.
“Or I can get it at a café,” I say as a yawn takes over.
Finn sets a hand on my back, his touch warm and confident. “Let’s get you a coffee, Jules.” He tips his forehead to the café with the red awning, where I was headed anyway, telling me he’s wanted to try this café since he arrived.
It’s just coffee. Colleagues do that all the time. “That sounds good to me,” I say.
But it doesn’t feel as good as his hand on my skin feels. Especially since it signals to anyone around that I belong to him.
Even though I don’t.
* * *
