Chapter 50
LUCY
I dropthe kids off at school and before the huge doors close behind them, they turn and give me a little wave. As they head inside, I can hear them immediately fall into speaking French with the other kids. It’s all so sweet and leaves me missing the comforts and familiarity of home more than ever.
With an hour to kill before my French class begins, I settle into one of the gazillion cafés near the school to order an espresso and a croissant and do some last-minute studying. There’s one place in particular I like that’s pretty inexpensive, at least compared to the others, probably in an effort to cater to broke students. It’s not as nice as other cafes around and their croissants are kind of dry, but I’m okay with that.
I order my stuff at the counter and while I’m paying, someone behind me explodes with a huge bon-JOR in about the worst American accent I’ve heard since I’ve been here. I smile at the cashier, as if my own French is so good—which it is not—and head to my usual table in the corner where I can look out the window at everyone passing by.
“Bon-JOR,” the same American voice repeats.
Oh man. I so do not feel like being chatted up by some American tourist who will want to know what I’m doing in Paris and why, and how crazy I am to be in a city where English is not the first language.
But I don’t want to be snotty, so I turn around with a smile on my face. I’ll just explain I’m studying for my class and am pressed for time. People always understand if you say you have homework to do.
Not so fast.
I twist in my seat, enough to be polite but certainly not enough to indicate I’m interested in chatting.
At first all I see is a wall of man. To be more specific, a broad chest encased in a white button-up shirt, fitted just enough to outline a lean but muscular physique. A massive pair of hands are poised on his hips, propping open a navy-blue sports jacket and leaving me eye-level with a belt buckle and the fly of his dark-wash blue jeans.
“Bon-JOR,” he repeats.
Oh God.
My heart flips in my chest and my hands start to shake. Espresso, which I don’t even really like anyway, slurps out of my cup, which I try to set down on the table before the dark mud spills all over my blue jeans. I only have two pair with me and I told myself no shopping until Frenchie pays me.
It crosses my mind that I’m hallucinating, having overdosed on homesickness and lack of local friends. I want to run. Or at least throw my croissant at him.
But no. There Tyler Brooks stands, devastatingly handsome and surprisingly elegant. As if someone told him to step it up and not wear his Aftershocks sweatshirt and hat because flying all the way to Paris from California, and hunting me down, was serious shit and he needed to look the part.
I open my mouth to speak but my heart seems to have lodged itself in my throat and besides, I have no idea what to say, anyway.
“Bon-JOR,” he repeats.
“Your French sucks, you know.”
He nods. “Yup. I’m pretty sure it does, since bon-JOR is the only thing I know how to say, and that’s because I heard it from the guy who looked at my passport when I got off the plane.”
“What… why… how…” I sputter like a complete idiot.
“I think I’ll help myself to this chair right here, since you’re clearly not going to invite me to take a seat.”
He folds up his frame into the tiny wedge of space that’s typical in French cafes, which so does not lend itself to an oversized American athlete. He looks pretty funny, actually, and if I were not so confused, I might take a photo.
“Thought I’d add a little drama to your Parisian getaway.”
He’s got that right. It’s like we’re in this giant cloud of drama that’s coming at us from all sides that isn’t going to leave us alone anytime soon.
Funny how shit can follow you thousands of miles from home.
“Thanks. You know I love drama. Very thoughtful of you. Did you come all this way to ruin my day?”
Damn, that’s harsh. But I can’t seem to help it. Call it self-protection.
He nods. “Yes. That. And, you know, I missed your biting sarcasm.”
He flashes me a grin, that grin that first made me think no man can be nice and look this good, that later taught me I have to stop being such a judgmental, cynical pain in the ass.
“I thought about working on my romantic gestures to prove I’m not the player some author pegged me as for her book.”
“I hear ya. And I wanted to prove that the guy who made a bet to date me for ninety days didn’t win.”
“You got that right. Now I have to take a figure-skating lesson and skate around the rink in a dress.”
“I’d like to see that.”
He tilts his head. “I’m sure it will be all over the news. Not the details of the bet, per se, since I don’t want to look like the biggest asshole in hockey, but the part where I skate around in a dress is bound to be popular.”
“Maybe I can catch it on the internet here. I don’t think the French media will be covering it.”
He reaches for my croissant and tears off a corner.
“Hungry? You know, they have lots more croissants up there at the counter,” I say.
He’s wearing me down, dammit. I’m trying desperately to maintain my hard edge, and now that he’s sitting so close to me that I can smell his shampoo, I’m losing ground.
Fast.
“My French class starts in five minutes.”
“I can wait for you here.”
“Don’t.”
My sharp tone leaves him unfazed. Damn, he’s resilient.
“Fine. I’ll go wait over at Frenchie’s.”
“What? How do you know her?”
He grins. “From Petal, of course. She’s quite the cupid, you know.”
She’s also quite the former BFF. I am so not down with this, and I will be telling her that in a matter of minutes. She blew my cover and I’m not happy about that.
“What are you doing here, Tyler?” I finally ask.
Of course, I know why he’s here. I’m just being a brat and making him say it.
“You know, I woke up one morning and thought I’d chase you across the continental United States and then the Atlantic Ocean because I had nothing else to do. It’s bye week, so I had some time on my hands.”
I wrinkle my nose. “What the hell is ‘bye week?’”
“We get a week-long break before the playoffs start.”
“You’re in the playoffs?”
He nods.
Jesus, I am so out of the loop. On the other hand, why would I be following hockey when I’m trying to forget this guy?
The guy who populates my dreams every night, who is the last person I think of before I fall asleep and the first whose face I imagine when I wake up.
Damn him.
“So you just board a plane during your bye week because nothing screams psycho like transatlantic stalking?”
He considers this. “Never been called psycho before. You know how to make a guy feel good.”
He laughs, the sound filling the café and turning heads. People smile, assuming we’re just another young couple in love, enjoying the beautiful city.
He leans toward me. “Look. I know I messed up. Big time. But I can’t shake this feeling that we have unfinished business.”
“And a quick trip to Paris is going to fix that?” I ask.
He takes my hand and it feels so good I want to crawl into his lap. I consider snatching it away because I don’t want to be tempted by this man.
Only, I don’t.
“I miss you. I miss us,” he says without hesitation.
“You’re just lonely.”
“No, I’m not lonely. It’s just that I’m without you.”
“I thought you were a nice guy. But you’re not,” I say, my resolve weakening by the second.
“Yeah well, I thought you were a nice girl. And I’m still willing to consider you might be, and that this is just a big fucking snafu that someday we’ll look back on and laugh our asses off over. Look, I let you get away because of my pride, and fuck me if I’m too late but I have to tell you I love you. I’ve loved you from the beginning, before you loved me, before you even knew my last name.”
“What’s your last name again?”
He leans toward me and our lips meet for the first time in weeks, although it feels like I kissed him just yesterday.
“I knew you were going to crawl back to me,” I say.
“You did?” he asks, wrinkling his brow.
“No. Not really. It’s just that I saw someone say that that in a movie once and thought it sounded good.”
“Look, Lucy. I’m willing to fight for us and I’ll spend every day proving I’m worth it. But I can’t do it alone.”
“You mean that? Like, really mean it?”
“If you think I deserve a second chance, I’ll gladly take it. But only if you think I deserve one.”
“Shit. I’ve missed my French class.”
“Sorry, baby. If you come home with me, you can take all the French classes you want. Just don’t write a book about what an asshole I am. I try to keep that shit secret.”
We exit the café and wander until it’s time to pick up the kids from school. I show him my favorite streets and he agrees that this is the most beautiful place he’s ever been.
After San Francisco, of course.
“You know,” I say, snuggling into him while we stroll, “you didn’t even have to ask me to come back. The minute I saw you, I knew I would.”
He stops in his tracks. “Why did you let me grovel, then?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe it was one final test to make sure you aren’t the creepy player I once thought you were.”
“Oh my God. When are you going to give it a rest?” he asks, laughing.
“I don’t know. How about when we reach our ninety-day anniversary, and all you guys have to wear skating dresses?”