Chapter 21 Anna
ANNA
When I opened my door to head to work the evening after the kiss, my foot caught on something, and I nearly face-planted. A brown paper bag sat neatly on the mat. Picking it up, I spotted a handwritten card tucked inside.
Anna,
You have this incredible way of seeing the world. I hope this book makes you smile the way you make me smile.
Luke
Curiosity piqued, I carefully opened the bag, peeling back the tissue paper. It was a signed first edition of William Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying.
“Oh, wow,” I whispered, running my fingers over the worn leather cover, reverence taking over. This wasn’t just thoughtful. It was extravagant. A gift so wildly unnecessary it made my head spin.
Why would Luke send me something like this? Especially after practically shutting me down the day before? My brain was a kaleidoscope of confusion.
But my watch yanked me back to reality. I was already late for work. With a sigh, I carefully closed the book and set it on the table, vowing to unravel the mystery of Luke Fisher and his baffling generosity later.
When I arrived at Muses, Marie Antoinette was practically vibrating with anticipation. She looked like she'd been holding in a secret for hours and might combust.
“Anna Amato,” she said, arms folded, one perfectly arched brow raised. “You’ve been spotted in the French Quarter. With a man. A tall, mysterious, dangerously attractive man. And you didn’t tell me?”
We were starting our shift, the bar mostly empty thanks to the looming rainstorm. A rival tour guide had seen me and Luke walking together and wasted no time feeding her the headline.
“It wasn’t a big deal,” I said quickly. “Very low key.
“Wait, was it the smoldering Brit? Or the charming Irish Hugh Grant lookalike?” Marie Antoinette quizzed.
“Nope, it was Jacques. The French romantic,” I said with a grin.
Her eyes widened. “Come again?”
“Yep, Jacques.”
She blinked in confusion. “Mercy! You’re changing dance partners faster than I can keep track. This isn’t like you at all. So, it’s Jacques now? Fine. But if tomorrow you introduce me to an Italian named Giorgio, I’m holding auditions to find the real Anna Amato.”
I exhaled deeply, trying to calm my emotions. “Listen,” I began, gripping her shoulders. “Something did happen in the French Quarter.”
“I’m listening.”
“Well, we ran into these awful girls from Collegiate, and to make me feel better, Lu—Jacques kissed me.”
She leaned in. “Was it a good kiss?”
“Yes. It was…” Earth-shattering, life-altering, weak-in-the-knees-inducing. “Good. It was a good kiss.”
“That’s great news. It’s about time.”
“But I don’t know if it was just for show, because my high school frenemies were there,” I admitted, heart sinking at the memory of Luke’s change in behavior during the car ride. “Actually, I’m pretty sure it was just for show. Afterward, he said he had to read…”
Marie Antoinette leaned in like she was about to be handed state secrets. “Read what? His diary? A love poem? Don’t leave me hanging.”
My brain scrambled. I couldn’t tell her that he needed to read a movie script. That would give Luke away. “An instruction manual,” I said, cringing the moment the words left my mouth.
“He had to read a what now?” Her eyebrows shot up. “An instruction manual for what?”
“A blender,” I improvised, glancing at the daiquiri machine.
“A blender? How long does it take to read a blender manual?”
I coughed. “Well, they’re industrial-grade blenders.”
“Industrial-grade blenders? Girl, that’s just sad.”
“Well, he had to read the manual for work.” I felt a blush rise up my neck.
“For work? What does he do?”
I cleared my throat. “He’s a kitchen-appliance efficiency analyst.”
She shook her head, as though refusing to let her brain process this absurdity any further.
“He’s from France, and he’s in America, reading about blenders.
You sure know how to pick ’em, don’t you?
” She cleared her throat. “Anna, what Beau did to you was unforgivable. I know it scarred you. But you’re strong.
After all, women are like tea bags—we don’t know our true strength until we’re in hot water. ”
“Women are like tea bags? Who said that?”
“Me. And Eleanor Roosevelt. So, if Jacques doesn’t realize how amazing you are, don’t waste time on him. He may be French, but if you’re feeling this conflicted after one kiss, I know your heart won’t heal if whatever this is goes any further.”
Marie Antoinette was right. That kiss had allowed me to hope, opened the door to new possibilities, and made it hard to focus on anything else.
One kiss and I was already feeling things for Luke that I hadn’t felt in years.
Maybe ever. With Beau, I hadn’t felt one-tenth of the glorious anxiety that had recently become my constant companion.
And the saddest part? It was a life-altering kiss from someone who didn’t reciprocate my feelings.
Or did he? I wasn’t sure anymore.
I’d put myself out there, only to feel the sting of rejection. But then he bought me that first-edition novel. It was a thoughtful, meaningful gift that left me completely confused.
Why would he do that if he wasn’t interested?
Was he playing with my emotions, or was I just reading too much into everything?
Or maybe—and this thought made my chest tighten—maybe he felt sorry for me. Maybe the book was an apology gift, a "thanks for the tour guide services" parting present before he disappeared back to his real life.
The bell above the door jingled, and my heart skipped when I saw his familiar blue eyes. Luke stood there in a ridiculous black wig, stick-on mustache, and goatee.
Yanking him toward the private booth, I asked, “So, how did that script turn out? Is it a blockbuster?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, slipping into his French accent. "Ah, the script. Oui, I am still... wading through it." Then, almost tentatively, "Did you get the book?"
"It was too generous." The words came out sharper than I intended. "I can't keep it."
His face fell slightly. "Please keep it." His voice softened, dropping the accent. "I wanted you to have it."
I wanted to believe him. Man, I wanted to. But accepting expensive gifts from someone who'd blown me off felt like setting myself up for more heartbreak.
"I can't." My throat tightened. "It's too much, Luke. I can't accept something like that when I don't even know what we—" I cut myself off, aware of Marie Antoinette's increasingly obvious surveillance mission.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted her inching closer and closer to our table.
She was trying to be stealthy, but it was like watching a bad spy movie.
First, she adjusted the salt and pepper shakers at one table.
Then, she rearranged a napkin at another table.
She was on an eavesdropping mission, and she wasn't even subtle about it.
I lowered my voice. "I can't talk about this here. I need to get back to work."
I glanced over at my snooping coworker, who was now “casually” dusting off a completely clean chair.
As I walked to the bar, my friend followed. “That’s Monsieur Jacques, right? Where did you say that you met him again?”
I was sick of all the lying. “At my Saturday French lesson.”
“I thought that was all high schoolers and elderly people?”
“It was—until Jacques showed up.”
She grinned. “I want to hear everything.”
Fixing a drink for Luke, I replied, “I’ll tell you later. I have work.”
Her voice followed me. “Since when has that ever stopped you from gossiping?”