Chapter 3
Tara
It’s been a week since I came to Paris, since I started my job at the Louvre, and since I had the best (and only) one-night stand of my life.
I think of him—my French hottie—at the strangest times.
When I’m brushing dust from a canvas.
When I’m rinsing pigments from my hands.
When I’m sipping my morning espresso at the little bar on Rue de Buci.
His storm-colored gray eyes sneak into my thoughts like they own the place.
“Tara, we’re going to Café Marly for lunch. You want to come along?” Cece, one of my colleagues, asks as she leans on the edge of my worktable.
Cécile—Cece—is Parisian-born and whip-smart, with black bobbed hair and a lipstick collection that could stock Sephora. She has a wicked sense of humor, which means I instantly liked her.
“Yes, absolutely.” I glance down at my gloves, smudged with pastel dust, and peel them off. “Give me five minutes to clean up, or I’ll look like I lost a fight with a box of chalk.”
She rolls her eyes. “Hurry, before Giselle gives us a…regard assassin* for spending too much time away from the studio.”
Giselle Durand, Head of the Restoration Department at the Louvre, looks precisely like the casting director’s dream of a stern, elegant French woman—silk blouse, severe bun, cheekbones that could draw blood.
She’s hard on the outside…and probably on the inside, too.
But she knows the craft and treats her team with respect, if not compassion and empathy.
She’s also a French snob, which is why she reminds me at every opportunity that she’s taken a chance hiring the American girl for the delicate Rosalba Carriera pastel.
Said American girl has a freaking PhD from UC Berkeley and ten years of restoration experience…
but all that is moot when you’re not très francais*.
But once she saw how I worked, she calmed down, not that it’s stopped her from warning me every time I get close to the Portrait of the Comtesse de Valois, “Pastel requires delicacy. No hesitation. No heavy touch.”
Regardless of Giselle, it’s a dream come true to work at the Louvre.
I feel a jolt of delight every morning when I slip through the staff entrance by the Cour Carrée, flashing my ID badge like I belong.
Honestly, it’s a miracle I get any work done when half my brain is busy being awestruck. The Louvre is—well, The Louvre.
I pass the Winged Victory of Samothrace on my way to the cafeteria to get a cup of coffee, like it’s just a regular Tuesday.
Yesterday, I took a wrong turn and ended up face-to-face with the Venus de Milo.
This place is ridiculous!
And you bet I get a kick out of crossing those echoing marble corridors where tourists aren’t allowed, breathing in the faint scent of dust and varnish that clings to the air, until I reach our hidden sanctum—the restoration labs.
The studio I work in is nothing like the hushed galleries visitors know.
In these rooms, tables overflow with brushes, pigments, microscopes, and angled lamps.
Masterpieces the world only knows from postcards sit casually on easels, stripped down and vulnerable, waiting for us to coax them back to life.
I’m in love with the painting I’m working on.
Two and a half centuries of dust, grime, and careless handling have dulled its glow, but the bones of it—her luminous face, her knowing eyes, the blush on her cheeks—are brilliant.
Every time I touch pastel to the surface, I swear I feel Rosalba Carriera herself guiding my hand.
By the time I’ve scrubbed the dust from my hands and made sure my phone-slash-wallet is tucked into the deep pocket of my boho-chic overalls—the comfortable, paint-splattered pair that practically screams “art nerd at work”—Cece and Jean are already waiting by the door.
Jean is another restorer. He’s tall, charming, and perpetually dusted with marble powder from his sculpture work.
We walk out into the Paris sunshine and cross the Cour Napoléon to Café Marly, tucked beneath the Louvre’s arcades with a perfect view of the glass pyramid.
Like I said, ridiculous!
When we reach the café, the terrace hums with a mix of tourists and effortlessly chic Parisians.
Inside, red velvet banquettes and mirrored walls lend the place an air that’s both historic and faintly decadent.
It’s the lunch rush, and the air is rich with butter and garlic. A waiter glides past, carrying a plate of escargot, the shells gleaming under the lights. My mouth waters.
We squeeze into small chairs around a round table.
There are many things I love about living and working in Paris, but as a food lover, I appreciate that Parisians take their cuisine seriously.
Lunch isn’t a sad desk salad or a sandwich eaten while working.
It’s an event. My colleagues don’t “grab lunch”—they sit down, order a proper meal, and always, always a glass of wine, because apparently that’s fuel, not indulgence.
Cece gets steak frites—way too much food for me in the middle of the day. Jean goes for steak tartare. I don’t blame him; I had it a couple of days ago and fell a little in love myself. But this is lunch, and I’m not that Parisian yet. So, I play it safe with a salade nicoise.
Between bites and laughter, I realize how comfortable I’ve become here.
I had expected Parisians to be snobs, as everyone warned me before I left, but I’m surprised to find they’re friendly and congenial.
Jean and Cece have become more than colleagues; they’re my friends now.
Tomorrow evening, they’ve invited me to join them for dinner and clubbing after we attend the reception at the Pyramid—drinks and hors d’?uvres with the Louvre’s patrons and, more importantly, the family loaning the Carriera I’ve been contracted to restore.
Cece snaps a picture of her steak frites, and Jean follows suit, both already planning their next Instagram post. We’ve had the social media conversation before—my lack of it, their disbelief.
It’s not my thing. The whole idea is awkward to me, like inviting strangers to peek through my windows.
My younger sister, Marisol, on the other hand, can’t breathe without documenting it on Instagram, so I’ve had plenty of practice tolerating people like Cece and Jean.
“I still can’t believe you’re not on Insta. Everyone is on Insta,” Cece says, setting her phone down and lifting her glass of red wine.
I’m sticking to water. If I drink wine in the afternoon, I’ll end up face-planting into my canvas, and then Giselle will swear off hiring American girls ever again.
“I made a video of myself polishing The Slave by Michelangelo,” Jean says proudly. “Nearly half a million views on TikTok.”
“That’s because you took your shirt off,” Cece shoots back. “I don’t think the people who watched were interested in Michelangelo.”
“Oh, Jean, are you making thirst traps?” I tease.
He smirks. “Art needs attention. I’m giving the masses what they want, an insight into art restoration.”
“Mon Dieu, Jean.” Cece rolls her eyes. “The only thing you’re restoring is your ego.”
I laugh at that. The French, I’ve learned, have a wicked sense of humor—one I’ve come to enjoy. And they make damn good lovers, too. Something I’d enjoyed even more.
“So, how has your first official week at the Louvre been?” Cece picks up a fry and drowns it in mayonnaise. They eat their fries with mayo here. As strange as that was when I first got here, I’m getting hooked on it myself.
I grin. “Amazing. In all honesty, it’s like I snuck into Heaven and no one’s noticed yet. I mean…I get to work in the freaking Louvre on a freaking Carriera.”
Cece nods somberly. “You know it’s interesting seeing this from your eyes. One gets so used to how…rote life is, and we forget that we do work at le Louvre*.”
Jean lifts his glass. “à la belle Américaine*, who’s helping us see things afresh.”
“Like Emily in Paris,” I suggest with a wink. They claim to detest the show, but I know they watch it religiously.
We settle the bill and spill back out into the sunshine.
The Cour Napoléon is vibrant with tourists angling for the perfect shot of the Pyramid, children licking ice cream cones, and men with sketchpads trying to sell caricatures for twenty euros a pop.
We walk together toward the staff entrance, Cece and Jean bickering cheerfully about whose restoration project is more important, their voices ricocheting between French and English.
I lag a little behind, tilting my face up to the sky, soaking in that golden Paris sunlight that makes everything look like a painting.
My eyes sweep around and…I see him?
At least, I think I do. Tall, broad-shouldered, in a dark suit, cutting a line against the crowd. The tilt of his head, the way he walks.
It jars me.
My heart thuds.
For one wild second, I’m sure it’s him.
But when the man turns, it’s not. He’s merely another elegant Parisian with places to be.
I let out a shaky, self-deprecating laugh, hurrying to catch up with Cece and Jean.
Clearly, my imagination is working overtime.
Because what are the odds I’ll ever see him again?
* Murderous look ( French)
* Very French (French)
* The Louvre (French)
* To the beautiful American (French)