Chapter Eighteen
Russ felt a bit like he was watching a reality show unfold. The woman who’d shown Jackson Quick how to mix pastis the other day seemed to have absolutely no idea that she was dining with a rock star.
He’d heard her call him “Sam” a few times, and after Russ had delivered their food, he’d heard the woman ask what brought Jackson to Paris.
It would be almost funny if it wasn’t sort of sad.
Russ supposed that a man like Jackson probably couldn’t be himself very often, for fear of people wanting to be around him for all the wrong reasons.
But with this woman, who didn’t seem to have any idea who Jackson was, he seemed loose and relaxed, and Russ had caught him gazing at the woman with stars in his eyes more than once.
It was all very sweet, except for the fact that eventually the woman would figure out the truth. And then, would she feel betrayed? Or would she understand why Jackson Quick might want someone to see him for the man he was rather than for the fame he’d achieved?
Anyhow, it wasn’t Russ’s business. If there was one thing he knew about owning a bar in this city, it was that you had to let people do their own thing and, at times, make their own mistakes. He’d sure made plenty of his own.
As the clock ticked past 8 p.m., the bar was filling up.
Four American girls had come in a little while ago, and Benji—who still hadn’t noticed that the man eating at the corner table was actually a rock star—was in his usual flirt-with-tourists mode, which meant that Russ and Rob were mostly on their own behind the bar.
Aside from checking on Jackson Quick and his date now and then, Russ was in his own world, pouring beers and shaking martinis and trying not to think about the fact that Shelby had said she might come back after spending the day with her friends.
He couldn’t figure out what it was about her that had him turned so inside out.
She was beautiful, yes, though she didn’t seem to realize it.
And she had a vulnerability that made him want to wrap his arms around her and protect her from the world.
But he’d met plenty of beautiful, vulnerable girls before—hell, he worked in a bar—and he hadn’t felt that way about any of them.
But then, as he delivered the check to Jackson Quick’s table around eight thirty, interrupting a moment when the rock star and the woman were gazing into each other’s eyes, he had a realization.
Shelby had looked at him like that, too.
She had from the very first moment she’d walked into the bar, and it wasn’t because she was hoping for free drinks or that she wanted to sleep with an Australian bartender, which were the two reasons women usually looked at him that way.
No, he had a feeling that she was seeing him beneath the surface, and he’d liked the version of himself he’d seen reflected in her eyes.
But what did that matter? Maybe she saw who he was, but she was also in the midst of a divorce, and on top of that, she was only in Paris for a few days. So why was he still thinking about her?
He ran Jackson Quick’s credit card and delivered the card and receipt back to the table, and a few minutes later, he waved to Jackson as he and the woman headed for the door of the restaurant.
Jackson nodded back and held the door open for the woman, but she paused to let someone else in before she exited, and when Russ looked up quickly, he almost dropped the glass he was drying.
It was Shelby entering the bar by herself, her eyes scanning the room until they locked on his.
She smiled slowly, and he couldn’t stop himself from grinning back like a madman.
“You came,” he said as she sidled up to the bar and leaned in. She was wearing a pale pink dress that fell to her calves and a pair of flat shoes, her hair long and loose.
“I told you I would try to.”
He caught a whiff of her perfume—something with jasmine in it—as she closed the distance between them, propping herself on the bar momentarily to land a peck on his cheek.
“How was the Champs-élysées?” he asked.
“Expensive,” she said with a smile. “Plus, I found myself thinking the whole time that I wished I was here instead.”
“Oh, yeah?” Russ raised an eyebrow in surprise.
“So I was wondering if there’s any way you can go to dinner with me.”
Russ glanced around, feeling a stab of regret. “I don’t usually leave early.”
“Right, of course, I didn’t mean…” She hesitated and then added in a spill of words, “It’s just, I don’t know what this is.
I don’t know why I can’t stop thinking about you.
I’m not in a place to start anything new, and no one would mistake me for anything but a total mess right now.
But… that didn’t seem to scare you away. ”
“Maybe I like messy.”
Shelby blinked, like the words had hit her hard.
“That’s good, because maybe that’s who I am—not just now, but all the time.
I’m not perfect. I never will be. But maybe that’s okay, too.
Maybe it’s time to stop trying to become what everyone else wants me to be.
Maybe I’m done with making the decisions everyone else wants me to make. Maybe it’s time I choose.”
Russ stared at her. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had said something so starkly honest to him.
“Right,” he said, setting down his towel and scanning the bar for Benji, who was now seated at the table of American blondes. “Would you hold on a second? I’ll be right back.”
“Sure.”
Shelby watched him as he headed over to tap Benji on the shoulder. “Hey, mate,” he said when Benji looked up at him in surprise. “The bar’s all yours tonight. I have something I need to do.”
“Now, wait a minute,” Benji said, standing, and from the way he wobbled on his feet, it was clear that he’d not just been sitting with the girls but had also been drinking with them. His eyes were glassy and unfocused. “You didn’t tell me you needed time off tonight.”
“We’re partners, Benji, remember? I cover for you most nights of the week.”
“I never miss a night of work!” Benji snapped back.
“Doesn’t mean you’re here doing anything useful. You’re always off drinking at a table with tourists, leaving me to run the place.”
Benji glanced over his shoulder to see if the girls were listening, but they were absorbed in conversation. “Why are you trying to cock-block me?”
“I’m not.” Russ was hit with a wave of exhaustion. “Look, mate, I’m going, whether you like it or not. Rob is fine behind the bar for now, but if things get busier, you should go help him pour drinks, all right?”
“Now you’re talking to me like I’m a guest in my own bar?” Benji squared his shoulders and glared at Russ like he wanted to fight him. “Who do you think you are?”
Russ stared at him for a minute, at the anger and the alcohol burning in his expression, and he tried to remember the last time he’d actually felt like they were friends, rather than just two men who happened to own a bar together.
There had once been a time when they’d laughed together, confided in each other, even lived together as ill-matched roommates as they’d embraced the adventure of moving to Paris to start a new life.
But those days had disappeared long ago, and Russ hadn’t realized until that moment how sad he was to think that their friendship felt entirely behind them now, too.
“I think I’m a man who wants more out of his life,” he said.
“And I think I’m a man who’s done with picking up the slack for a friend who checked out a long time ago. ”
Benji seemed to take a few extra beats to process the words before his face darkened. “You don’t want to run a bar with me anymore, mate, you just have to say the word.”
Russ sighed. “I think maybe I don’t, Benji. And I owe you a conversation about that. But let’s save it for tomorrow when we’re both sober and thinking with clear heads, okay?”
Benji scoffed. “You’re too busy with some slag to talk to me now?”
“Careful, Benji.” Russ swallowed down his anger.
“All I’m saying is there’s got to be a better way to live life than being trapped in the same useless cycle for fifteen years.
” And with that, as Benji gaped at him, Russ moved back to the bar, where he offered his arm to Shelby. “Can I take you to dinner?” he asked.
“You sure about this?” she replied. “I’ve just made possibly the worst romantic speech of all time. Plus, your friend doesn’t look too happy.”
Across the bar, Benji was glaring at him.
“Shelby,” Russ said, “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
Kayla walked through the Esplanade Ben Gourion quickly, cursing her lousy luck.
She’d only been on the schedule until four today, and it had been her plan to settle by the Seine as soon as her shift ended to wait for Nadim. The conversation with her father last night had made her long to speak with someone who hadn’t seemed to judge her.
But her coworker had called in sick, and Kayla hadn’t had a choice about staying until the next shift clocked in at eight thirty.
By the time she hurried out of the train station, it was well past nine and the sun had fully set, which meant that Nadim had lost the light he probably needed to paint by.
She was far more disappointed than she should have been, considering that she barely knew him.
She glanced up at the Eiffel Tower, which glowed with promise, and she felt a stab of despair. She shouldn’t be here. How had the search for identity taken her across an ocean to the home of a father who had never cared about her—and who was apparently not such a great guy?
She was just about to head back to her tiny apartment for another lonely night when she heard a deep voice call out, “Kayla, wait.” Startled, she turned.
“Nadim?” she said as he emerged from the shadows, holding his folded easel under one arm, a bag slung over his other shoulder. He was smiling at her, but his open expression turned to one of concern as he joined her in a pool of light cast by a streetlamp and saw her distress.