Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Peter could have slept in. He had no classes, no pressing obligations, no real reason to step foot on campus. And yet, here he was, making his way through the hushed corridors of the college, the soft scuff of his shoes the only sound in the stillness.
There was no logical reason for him to check his cubby. None.
But he did it anyway.
The moment his fingers brushed the smooth edge of the wooden slot, anticipation coiled tight in his chest, irrational but undeniable.
As he pulled out the small stack of mail, his pulse hitched, a fleeting, foolish hope threading through him.
He sifted through the envelopes with quick, practiced movements, scanning, searching, until—
Nothing. No pink envelope. No neatly folded letter. No connection waiting to be unsealed.
Disappointment hit harder than it should have. But then, the ball was still in his court, wasn’t it? He hadn’t responded to her yet. He hadn’t given her an answer. So why had he expected a new letter?
Shaking off the feeling, Peter turned toward his office, forcing his focus back to Caroline Charles.
Her story had always been compelling to him, but lately, it had taken on a sharper, more personal edge.
Her movements after the war were well documented, her work in France tangible proof of the life she had tried to rebuild.
A municipal building she had designed in Arras still stood, a testament to her resilience and talent.
But Peter couldn’t help but wonder whether her choice to settle there, even briefly, had been driven by more than professional considerations.
Had she been searching for something? Or someone?
The war had taken George from her, shot his plane from the sky over the northern countryside of France. But had Caroline really accepted that he was gone? Or had some small, desperate part of her held on to the impossible hope that he had survived?
Love and hope were dangerous when entwined. They made people believe in things that logic defied.
Peter needed to go to Arras. Needed to walk the streets she had walked, see the house where she had stayed, breathe the air of the town where she had tried to stitch herself back together. Only then could he bring this chapter of his research to a close.
By the time he reached City Hall Coffee that afternoon, his mind was whirring with logistics—the faculty contact at the University of Artois he needed to reach out to, the possibility of securing a temporary teaching position, the details of the trip he had begun to plan in his head.
And yet, despite all of that—despite everything—GraceTown tugged at him.
He had never been the kind to get attached to places, but something about this town had settled under his skin. Of all the places he had lived, however briefly, this one felt the most like home.
Maybe it wasn’t the town itself.
Maybe it was her.
Mila was behind the counter when he walked in, and she greeted him with a wave, her sharp gaze flickering over him in silent assessment. She was always watching, that one. Always reading between the lines.
He scanned behind the counter, almost without thinking. A young man he didn’t recognize was manning the espresso machine.
Something deflated inside him.
Landry wasn’t working today.
He had just stepped away from the counter, black coffee in hand, when his eyes landed on a familiar figure tucked away in a far corner of the shop.
There she was.
The relief was so startling, so immediate, that Peter barely had time to process it before he was already moving in her direction. He told himself it was just politeness that had him stopping by to say hello.
And yet, when he reached her table, his throat felt inexplicably dry.
“Taking a break?” The words left his mouth before he could stop them. A lame attempt at casual conversation, considering the green smock she wore made it obvious she was still on shift.
Landry glanced up, and when her gaze met his, something uncoiled in his chest.
“Late lunch,” she said, amusement flickering in her green eyes. The smock might have been practical, but it did something to the color of her eyes—made them deeper, more striking.
Then, without hesitation, she said, “You could join me. If you want, that is.”
For the first time all day, Peter felt himself breathe.
Without a second thought, he pulled out the chair, something settling in him as he did. It was ridiculous, really, how easily she made him feel at peace, how a simple invitation to sit with her felt like an unspoken acknowledgment of the connection that had been steadily growing between them.
He hadn’t even taken his first sip of coffee before he noticed the travel brochures spread across the table. The sight of them sent a ripple of curiosity through him. He caught a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower—it was unmistakable—before Landry swept them into her bag.
“Thinking about taking a trip?” he asked, lifting his cup to his lips.
“I’m saving up for one.” She shrugged, but there was a glint in her eyes, a quiet kind of determination.
Peter raised a brow. “To France?”
Landry chuckled, a self-conscious kind of laugh. “I know, I know, considering my book, you’d think London would be first on my list. But what can I say? I love baguettes. And cheese. Oh, and croissants!”
He leaned back slightly, studying her. There was something about how she said it, a quiet resolve beneath her words.
“You’ll love France,” he said with certainty. “I’ve been there a number of times. I’m always eager to go back.”
She let out a breath, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup.
“I’ve always wanted to go to Paris and spend days in the Louvre seeing all the art.
” Her voice softened, turning almost wistful.
“I graduated with a minor in art history. My parents called it a waste of time, but I think it’ll give me a better appreciation of what I see when I finally get there. ”
There it was again, that flicker of something beneath her words. Not just anticipation, but something heavier. A longing that had been brushed aside too many times before.
“There’s so much to see,” Peter agreed, setting his cup down. “If you had to pick, what’s at the top of your list?”
“The Mona Lisa, of course,” she said instantly. “But what else?”
He smiled, charmed by her enthusiasm. “You can’t go to the Louvre for the first time and not see the Mona Lisa. That would be like going to Florence and skipping David.”
She grinned, pulling out her phone as he listed his recommendations.
“The Wedding at Cana, The Raft of the Medusa and Liberty Leading the People,” she repeated, typing them into a notes app.
“Those are my top painting recommendations,” he continued. “But if you’re more into sculpture…”
“I am,” she said quickly, eyes alight with excitement. “I love statues. There’s something about them. They feel alive.”
Peter’s lips quirked. “I feel the same way.” He rested an elbow on the table, watching her. “Venus de Milo is stunning, but the Winged Victory of Samothrace might be even more breathtaking.”
“How do you spell Samothrace?” she asked, thumbs hovering.
He spelled it, watching as she carefully typed it in, clearly not wanting to get it wrong.
“But my favorite,” he added after a moment, “is an ancient Egyptian statue called The Seated Scribe. It’s a lifelike figure of a scribe, and his eyes…” He shook his head. “You have to see them to understand.”
She added a star next to that suggestion. “I’ll definitely check that one out.”
“The Great Sphinx of Tanis is another one to add to your list. It’s one of the largest sphinx sculptures outside Egypt.”
Landry let out a quiet breath, her gaze sweeping over the notes she’d taken. “I want to see them all.”
But then, just as quickly, the light dimmed in her eyes. Doubt crept in, turning her excitement into something more hesitant.
Peter caught the shift immediately. “What’s stopping you?” he asked, keeping his voice even.
“Money,” she answered, too quickly. “But I’ve been saving. My family thinks I should use my savings to buy a better car, but I’d rather use it for travel.”
Peter took a slow sip of coffee. He could sense there was more, something deeper she wasn’t saying. He set his cup down. “What else?”
Landry hesitated. “What do you mean?”
“There’s more to it than money,” he said simply. “What else is holding you back?”
For a moment, she seemed to war with herself, fingers tightening around her cup. Finally, she slowly exhaled. “Someone told me recently that if I really wanted to travel, I would have by now.”
Peter’s brows pulled together as she flushed slightly.
“It’s just…” she began, then stopped.
He tilted his head, considering her words. “Just?”
Landry let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “You’ll think I’m a wuss.”
He shook his head. “I could never think that of you.”
She bit her lip, clearly debating whether to say what she was thinking, then finally sighed. “The only way I could afford to go right now would be if I stayed in a hostel.”
Peter nodded. “Okay.”
Her lips pressed together. “I’ve read so many horror stories about women getting hit on constantly in hostels. It freaks me out.”
He started to respond, but she waved a hand. “I know, I know. I need to do my research. Have a plan. But it still makes me nervous.”
Peter could tell that wasn’t all. He leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the table. “What else?”
She sighed. “I don’t have friends who want to travel.
Or if they do, they’d rather go to places like New York or DC, not Paris.
” She tapped her nails against her cup. “And I just think…it would be more fun to share it with someone. I know people solo travel all the time, but I don’t know if that’s for me. ”
She braced herself then, like she was expecting him to tell her she was being ridiculous.
Instead, Peter reached across the table, covering her hand with his. Her fingers curled slightly around his, and an unexpected jolt of something surged through him.