Blue Eyes & Paris Vibes (Walker Brothers #4)
1. Chapter One - Abby
Abby
“A h, Gare du Nord, how I have missed you,” I mutter to myself as I step off the train, hauling my suitcase down behind me with a groan.
People rush around me, clearly in a hurry to get as far away from the train as possible, and I quickly make my way to the opposite side of the platform trying to get out of the way. You could think they spent weeks in there instead of the few hours it takes to get from London to Paris.
I take a deep breath of the fresh air. That's so much better than the air-conditioning inside the train and God, the natural light feels great. One can only entertain themselves so long with Tetris on their phone, waiting for the train to finally arrive at the destination.
I stop at the very side of the platform to sort out my luggage, pulling on my backpack and making sure my phone is stowed away safely, yet easy to access so I can use my trusty map on it, before I re-join the crowd. A difficult task to undertake, considering how urgently all these people need to leave. Seriously, they’re elbowing each other out of the way and running their suitcases over people’s toes.
Ah, Paris. The city of love.
I’ve been to Paris before. Several times, actually. Never for sightseeing, but for concerts and a trade fair.
However, considering the city is so beautiful, as observed from busses and taxis, it tends to escape me, just how… un-pretty I find their northern train station from the inside.
Dark green pillars hold up the roof, which looks like someone stacked wavy metal sheets together and nailed them in place. It makes sense—you’d need to fasten metal to metal somehow.
The nicest thing about the station is the row of lamps running down the center of each platform, giving the space a slightly old-fashioned, elegant feel. I’ve seen plenty of train stations in worse shape, but also quite a few that outshine this one.
The best thing though? No stairs to get off the platform, unlike so many other train stations in Europe. The station is a level-ground terminal. Trains turn around here rather than continuing forward, so all further transport and shops are located at the front of each train. Or back, however you want to look at it. If I wanted to, I could roll my suitcase right outside and get a taxi.
I grimace. Right. I planned on using the metro to get to my hotel. Guess I won’t get around hauling my suitcase down one or seven flights of stairs after all.
“Would have been too good to be true otherwise,” I mutter to myself and take my backpack off again. Max, my brother, gave me some of his leftover metro tickets from his last visit here. Thank God, because whenever I’d been here, the lines at the metro ticket machines were longer than my emotional bandwidth. Had I been more awake than I currently am, after needing to get up at five to catch my train, I probably would have been smart enough to put those in my pocket. But alas.
I put my backpack on top of my suitcase and quickly pull it open. There’s my bottle of water, jacket in case it starts to rain, map in case my phone gives out, powerbank, spare headphones.
“Goddamnit, where are you?” I hiss under my breath and put my whole arm in there, touching around blindly for the thick paper. “Fuck yes.” I feel the edge of them with my fingertip, on the very bottom, buried under all the very necessary stuff I wrestled inside my backpack. “Come to mama.” I try to pull it free with my finger, almost managing to wedge it between two, when I suddenly find myself, butt and most contents from my bag on the ground.
“What the hell?” I ask, stunned, looking around myself confused. That happened so quickly I lost all orientation.
“Watch where the fuck you’re going,” a man barks at me over his shoulder with an American accent and a deep scowl as he hurries off and I stare after him, my butt on the cold ground and mouth agape. The freaking audacity!
Oh, how I wish I was quick-witted enough to tell him off, but I’m still stunned. So instead, I raise my middle finger to his blue sweatshirt-clad back as he storms away.
I only caught a short glimpse of his face, but he didn’t look much older than my twenty-six. How rude. I thought people my age stuck together, a united front against the rude boomers of this world, but it seems like he’s become one of them, if only in mind.
Or he’s just the kind of person who thinks of themselves as above anyone else. Judging by his ‘let’s go golfing on the weekend’ sweatshirt and wrinkle-less dress pants, I will take a stab in the dark and say he’s someone who wants to be important. Maybe a nepo baby. I bet his daddy is some important investment banker or insurance CEO, earning him the ‘right’ to run people over in train stations.
Whoever and whatever he is, I hope he steps into a puddle and has to walk with wet socks in his shoes for the rest of the day. Or that his sleeve falls when he washes his hand. May all his future trains be late or canceled and taxis unavailable.
“?a va?” My thoughts of ill wishes are interrupted when a nice older gentleman leans down. His grey hair catches the light as he bends down, eyes full of quiet concern. My French isn’t great, but I think he’s asked me if I’m alright.
“Oui, ca va. Merci,” I answer him with my rudimentary, learned-in-the-past-four-weeks-from a-scary-green-owl-French and nod with a smile, slowly getting up.
He crouches and helps me collect my belongings, watching me as I stuff them right back into my backpack. There goes the careful order I originally packed them in, depending on what I’m most likely to need. At least I find my metro ticket as I push my map to the side and quickly put it into the pocket of my jacket.
“Careful,” the man tells me with a thick French accent when he hands me my bottle of water. “Keep bag close on the metro. People steal here.”
I fight a smile. That’s the exact same thing my brother kept telling me as well, and considering he’s had his wallet stolen on the metro once, I understand his insistence.
“I will be careful,” I assure him with a nod and zip up the bag tightly, snapping the latch on its top too. “Thank you.”
“Well, you have a good time here,” he says in a joking tone and gives me one final nod before walking away.
Putting my bag over my shoulder, I make sure it doesn’t sit too loose and make my way over to the metro with my hand firmly on my suitcase and wave at the nice man as he continues ahead to leave the train station through its main entrance.
Going down the escalator, I see a crowd in front of the ticket machines. A group with matching suitcase covers is scattered among several automats, talking at each other animatedly and trying to find the slot for coins, while the line behind them grows more impatient, all nervously tapping feet and flexing hands as they probably imagine shoving those coins somewhere they don’t belong.
I chuckle and pat the pocket with my metro ticket, feeling like a VIP that gets to skip the line of people with regular tickets to be waved inside without any waiting time. I need to thank Max for the ticket later, even if it got me run over.
As I walk by the crowd my eyes catch the sight of a frustratingly well-fitting blue sweater on frustratingly wide shoulders. It’s the asshole who ran me over, putting money into one of the machines and my fantasies of revenge return with a vengeance.
Do I wait for him to pass me and kick his shin? Step on the back of his shoe? Take out my bottle of water, pretend to trip and drench him?
Or maybe I should run him over and tell him to watch where the fuck he’s going. Oh, I like that idea!
But I stop myself. Come on, Abby. You’re better than that. My parents taught me to always treat people with kindness, even assholes who make you introduce your butt to a filthy train station ground.
“Once you’ve made a bad first impression, it’s very hard to make a positive one,” my dad always says and as much as I hate to admit it, and as much as I’d love to take revenge into my own hands, he’s right. I force myself to take a deep breath and roll my shoulders in an attempt to calm down. Karma will have something in store for him. He will get his comeuppance, even if I might not be around to witness it.
And I can imagine all the worst ways that’s going to happen. Now, that brings a genuine smile to my face again.
According to my map, I need to take Line 5. After scanning the station ceiling for a while, I spot the signs pointing me in the right direction. Following them feels like being in a scavenger hunt, some of them so hidden it feels like they want tourists to get lost in this station. I pull my suitcase after me through corridors that are so long I wonder if I even need to take the metro and haul it down so many flights of stairs I’m already exhausted thinking about the way back up, but eventually, I make it to the right platform, barely able to even have a look at the station before a train arrives.
I step in fast, wedge my suitcase into a corner, and grab onto the railing, eyes darting around nervously. The gentleman mentioning theft on the metro made me more paranoid than my brother ever could have.
Just as the doors close, a man jumps into the train at the very last second. I grimace.
It’s Mr. Rude. Again. He is talking into his phone loudly, not noticing the glares most of the passengers direct at him. Or maybe he doesn’t care. He certainly seems like someone who doesn’t care about the opinions of strangers.
I glance at my phone, then intently study the map on the opposite wall, narrowing my eyes to make out the station names, then let my eyes dart around the carriage, anywhere really so I can avoid looking at him. Because if I don’t, the revenge thoughts will win. And because now that I can actually see his face, it turns out he’s handsome as well, and I will not have his perfectly chiseled jaw and striking blue eyes cancel out my rage.
Shame, really. He’s a hottie. It’s the first time I dare to get a closer look at him and if I didn’t know he is so rude, I’d have a crush on him for sure. Brown hair falls into his piercing blue eyes full of annoyance at the world, seemingly. His tanned face is scrunched up. I’ve noticed the color of his sweater, but not that it fits really well in all the right places. You can clearly see that it covers a toned body. A body that can totally take a kick to the shin.
“No, Abby. Be nice. Deep breaths,” I tell myself silently, repeating the sentence like a mantra until we pull into the station where I need to change trains.
“Pardon,” I mumble, as I push my way out of the carriage, suitcase in tow. To my dismay, Mr. Rude exits the train as well. I was half hoping to have the chance to roll over his polished black shoes with my suitcase or at least bang it against his shin, but not a chance. After all, a girl can only have so much restraint.
He storms off like he’s chasing his girlfriend who just left him and I sigh, hoping that’s the last I’ve seen of his infuriatingly well-fitting blue suit and surprisingly handsome face.
But alas.
Four train lines run at this station, each with its own platform and I cause more than a few curses when I need to stop for a second to read the damned signs or pick up my suitcase to carry it down the surprisingly many sets of stairs hidden in this underground labyrinth the Parisians call their metro. I’m just glad I find my way without a hitch and even get to the platform in the right direction on the first try. Yay, it’s me, a professional tourist.
A sigh falls from my lips as I finally step onto the platform and recognize a familiar sweater from the corner of my eye. Goddamnit, how does he appear everywhere I am? Is this the universe’s way of saying ‘hi, here’s your new nemesis?’
So I hastily walk away from Mr. Rude, as the train is already driving into the station, and I hop onto it worryingly close to the doors shutting and trapping my suitcase in between.
“Holy shit, that was close,” I mutter, heart beating into my throat and ignoring the annoyed stares from the people around me. Now I know what the glass barriers are for. Those doors are merciless. I wouldn’t be surprised if they crushed any- and everything daring to be in its way, which would almost have been my suitcase. Or arm.
The train is empty enough so I can take a seat right next to the door, tucking my suitcase between my legs and pressing my backpack against the backrest. I take out my phone and text my brother his demanded message that I’ve arrived in Paris safely.
Me: Made it to the metro. Some jerk ran me over on the platform at Gare du Nord, though.
Max: Welcome to Paris. Have fun, sis!
Me: Oui, oui.
Max: Don’t pick a fight.
Damn. He knows me too well.
I answer him with a crying emoji and put the phone back into the inner pocket of my jacket and zip it close.
My brother has been urging me to visit Paris, ever since I made an offhand comment of not understanding the hype about it. The streets I saw were grey and dirty, drivers are rude and the traffic is chaotic.
To be fair, I always stayed pretty close to Gare du Nord though, which, according to my brother, is not exactly one of Paris’ flagships. Max used to pester me to go and have a look at other parts of the city, but I just never had the time, or when I had it, I lacked either money or motivation.
Max loves Paris. We live only a two-hour-something train ride away from it and boy, does he make use of that. He’s an event coordinator and found himself a job that lets him plan most of his events in Paris, but even when he doesn’t need to be here, he’ll pop over and find yet another corner of the city he hasn’t explored yet.
I always wonder why he hasn’t just gotten himself an apartment here yet. At this point, I’m convinced he knows Paris better than our hometown.
This was supposed to be one of those trips, his chance to ‘experience the city authentically’ before the summer tourism starts up.
However, as luck would have it, Max broke his leg two weeks ago. I’m not completely sure how he did it and he refuses to tell me, but I bet it has something to do with that boy's trip he went on. I think they went hiking. Maybe his leg isn’t even broken but a mountain lion chewed on it. Or they went axe throwing and had an accident. Good thing the most risky thing my friend group does is trying out a new board game.
Then again, knowing my brother, he might have just gotten drunk and slipped on his own feet.
Whatever the reason, he guilt-tripped me into going on his trip. I’m the only one in his friend circle who didn’t have any prior obligations, since I just graduated and decided to take some time off. I landed a full-time job in marketing that’s starting in five weeks, so I was free to take Max’s place.
I could have asked one of my friends to come with me but I doubt any of them would have gotten time off on such a short notice. I’m not too sad about a solo vacation, though. I’ve never travelled with them and really, holidays are what make or break a friendship and I want to relax, not land myself in some kind of friendship test.
So, I spent the last week researching things to do and what to book to make this vacation memorable. And I didn’t have to ask anyone if they were okay with my plans, or keep any evenings open to hang out with someone I see at home all the time, which was just… liberating. I might get addicted to solo vacations.
And who knows? Maybe I will fall in love with this city too and be back before I know it.
I sigh with relief when I finally see daylight again. Now, I just need to catch the bus to the hotel— and of course —it pulls away from the stop just as I spot it. And just for the cherry on top, I spot a flash of that all-too-familiar shade of blue inside.
Great. Just great. Seriously, this vacation is off to a bad start.
I curse Max for sending me here, then curse myself for letting something so petty get under my skin. Okay, Abby. Deep breath. Don’t let that fuckwad ruin your time here.
I check the map and breathe a sigh of relief when I realize it's only a 15-minute walk to the hotel. Whether I wait for the next bus or walk, it won’t matter, so I pop on my headphones and decide to enjoy the stroll. It feels nice after sitting on a train for so long, the cool spring air blowing in my hair and gentle sunshine on my skin.
I cross an intersection, and there it is! The top of the Eiffel Tower peeks above a building. Goosebumps form on my neck and I come to a stop, just looking at it.
Yes, I’ve seen it from the plane, from afar in Paris, and in countless postcards from my brother. But seeing it up close? That hits so differently.
I round the corner, and Champ de Mars stretches before me, a name I’ve read tons of times when I planned my trip, but now I finally have an image to go along with it.
It’s a mix of park and boulevard with a wide green strip that leads straight to the Eiffel tower, people picnicking and playing sports on the lush grass that is flanked with rows of square-shaped trees.
It’s idyllic, and I’m determined to walk through it, gravel crunching under my suitcase as I go. Sure, it’s probably going to take the same amount of time as dragging it over concrete or cobblestone, but at least the view is better and I know my hotel is closer to the Eiffel tower anyway.
I can’t help but grin as I watch other tourists do their typical photo ops, some pretending to hold up the tower, others balancing it on their hands, and one guy… well, let's just say he has a unique interpretation of the landmark.
Before long, my phone leads me out of Champ de Mars and into a residential area, with elegant old facades and balconies lined with delicate lattices.
I snicker when I realize what it reminds me of. Aristocats . It's been ages since I saw that movie, but it used to seem so fancy to my seven-year-old self and this neighborhood looks very old and like important people used to live here.
God, I can’t wait to see what the hotel looks like. Judging from these buildings, it has to be so fancy.
As I get closer, I spot a supermarket and some restaurants and my stomach already starts grumbling, letting me know it’s time for lunch. But first I want to get this suitcase to my room, because my arm is turning really fucking heavy.
One more corner to the hotel. Almost there, Abby.
I start walking quicker, ready to finally be there and push my suitcase into a corner, so excited to see what the hotel will look like, but then… I sigh.
My phone tells me I’ve reached my destination, right as I’m face-to-face with a concrete block, that, annoyingly enough, has the hotel name I’m looking for on a sign right over the entrance.
Ugh. I certainly imagined this a little less underwhelming. But okay, it’s what’s inside that counts, right? I cross the street, reassuring myself that the inside must be better, or I’d seriously start to question Max’s taste.
And it is. The lobby is sleek and modern, with grey floors and pastel walls, and some pops of orange at the bar. I’m impressed. This place almost feels like an art museum. I approach the reception, but then I hear shouting and freeze in my tracks.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”