Chapter Three
Brooke
I can’t stop smiling.
I keep trying, biting the inside of my cheek, staring at the ceiling, scrolling aimlessly through my phone, but the grin creeps back every single time.
I may never admit it out loud, but Matthew is so fucking adorable. The way he was acting on the plane, calm, confident, all business I thought maybe that sweet, awkward version of him was gone for good.
But he’s still there. Thank God, he’s still there.
I’ve gone out with the macho types, the ones who puff up their chests and talk about their woman like we’re some kind of collectible.
And sure, that’s fun at first. Who doesn’t want to feel wanted?
But it gets old fast. The possessiveness, the controlling crap, it stops being flattering and starts feeling like a leash.
I don’t want a daddy. I want a partner.
And Matthew… God, he’s… He’s kind and steady and infuriatingly decent. The kind of guy who’s probably overanalysing the fact that he waved before the elevator doors closed.
I flop back onto the bed, laughing softly to myself. I wonder if I can still make him blush.
I used to do it all the time in college, make him blush, I mean. A well-placed compliment, a too-long look, a whisper near his ear, and his face would turn the shade of a ripe tomato.
With that memory fuelling me, I start getting dressed.
Every outfit I packed suddenly feels wrong. I’d thrown in mostly casual stuff, jeans, T-shirts, a black dress meant for clubbing, none of which scream “let’s go exploring Paris with a man I haven't seen in two years.”
Wishing I’d packed my grey sundress, I settle on the next best thing: soft, fitted pants and a loose top. Comfortable enough to walk in, polished enough to blend in if we end up in a museum or a café.
I bite my lip as I catch my reflection. I haven’t changed that much in two years. My brown hair’s longer, sure, and my eyes maybe a little older. But at my core, I’m still the same me. Still the same curves, still the same smile.
I decide against a ponytail, my hair’s spent enough time twisted into a bun. Instead, I let it fall loose over my shoulders.
I tuck my phone, some cash, the room key, and a tube of lip gloss into my purse. My gaze lands on the box of condoms I impulsively packed. I doubt I’ll let him get that close… but still. Better safe than sorry.
I grab two, then hesitate, rolling my eyes at myself and putting one back. One is more than optimistic enough, Masters.
A sudden knock at the door startles me. “Coming!” I call, shoving it into my purse.
With one last glance in the mirror, hair loose, lip gloss just right, I sling my purse over my shoulder and head for the door.
I swing it open and freeze. Then I burst into laughter.
“Oh my God,” I manage between giggles, “we look like twins at church.”
Matthew glances down at himself, then back at me, and starts laughing too. “Or a couple.”
“Or that,” I say, still smiling as I pull the door shut behind me.
We stand there for a beat, side by side in the hallway, both wearing blue pants and white shirts, his a crisp button-down, mine a loose blouse. And he’s right. We do look like a couple.
The thought warms something small and stupid in my chest.
The elevator ride is quiet but comfortable, filled with half-smiles and little glances when we think the other isn’t looking. By the time we reach the lobby and step out onto the street, the city hums around us, Paris unfolding like a secret waiting to be shared.
“So,” I say, slipping my hands into my pockets as we step out into the soft Paris afternoon, “where are we going?”
“Well,” he says, falling into step beside me, “I figured we should get something to eat before anything else. Fuel up before the adventure.”
“Adventure?” I arch a brow. “I thought we were just grabbing food.”
“Food is an adventure,” he counters, dead serious for about two seconds before that familiar lopsided smile gives him away.
I laugh, shaking my head. “God, you’re such a nerd.”
“Hey,” he says, mock-offended. “I’ve grown up. Ditched the glasses and the hoodie.”
I laugh again, louder this time. “You lived in that hoodie. And for the record, I liked the nerd.”
He slows a little at that, like the words catch him off guard. I keep walking, pretending not to notice until he falls back into step beside me.
“Do you still talk to the girls?” he asks after a beat.
I shake my head. “Hailey’s in Dubai now, her husband got a job there and Anny moved to Texas. We text every once in a while, but it’s not the same.”
I follow him down some steps, “what about you?” I ask once we get back on level ground. “Does the frat still get together?”
He rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t a frat. And yeah, sometimes I still talk to Henry and Stevie. The rest… not so much.”
I nod, understanding. “It’s hard to hold onto people once college ends. Everyone just… drifts.”
“Yeah,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I had no idea that would be the last time I’d feel truly free. I thought once I got a job, I’d have money, travel, and do all this exciting shit. Instead, I spend half my life stressing about what to make for dinner.”
I burst out laughing. “Right? Like, why do I even have to decide? I used to complain when Stella made the same thing over and over again, but now I’d kill for her boring chicken casserole.”
“How is your sister?” he asks, glancing over.
I bite my lip. “She’s good. Stell and her husband, Zeke, they separated.”
He nods, thoughtful. “Zeke’s a contractor, right?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “In Jersey.” I don’t tell him that they broke up cause, he turned out to be a drug addict just like our father, that’s more third date material.
Matthew leads me off the main street and into one of those narrow side lanes you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it.
“Here,” he says, stopping in front of a tiny storefront tucked between a bookstore and a flower shop. The windows are fogged from the warmth inside, the sign above the door hand-painted and slightly chipped.
It’s not one of those shiny tourist cafés with overpriced croissants and English menus, this is the kind of place locals guard like a family heirloom.
Inside, the air smells like butter and herbs and freshly baked bread.
A small chalkboard behind the counter lists the daily specials in messy handwriting.
We squeeze into a little two-person table by the window while a woman behind the counter calls out orders in rapid-fire French.
Matthew orders for us, a couple of pissaladières, flatbreads with caramelized onions, anchovies, and olives, and a bowl of sausage stew that sounds so good my stomach actually growls.
Definitely not the typical tourist spread.
He glances at me once that’s done, squinting slightly. “I thought your sister and her husband separated two years ago.”
I pick at the edge of my napkin and shrug. “You don’t forget anything, do you?”
“Not when it comes to you,” he says, almost too casually.
I look down, suddenly fascinated by the grain of the wooden table. “Yeah, they did. For a while. But then COVID happened, and Zeke had to move back in. And, well…” I lift a shoulder. “One thing led to another. They got back together. And then… they separated again.”
“You approve,” Matthew says, not accusing, just observing.
“I feel like a terrible person,” I murmur.
“You used to like him,” he says gently.
“I did,” I admit. “Then he started using.”
Matthew makes a small, knowing “oh,” his brows lifting slightly.
“Yeah,” I sigh. “He and I used to be close. I mean, he practically raised me.” I shake my head, lips tightening.
“I had this feeling something was off. I told Stella, but she thought I was projecting our dad onto him. Turns out I was right. He started drinking after they separated the first time, and it spiralled to drugs. He OD’d, and she kicked him out. ”
He doesn’t say anything for a beat, just lets me sit with it. I pick at a crumb on the table.
“Anyway,” I exhale, “Stella’s been left to pick up the pieces. Again.”
“All you can do is be there for her,” he says softly.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “I know.” Then I shake my head, forcing a smile. “Enough about me. What about you? How’s your mom?”
Matthew
“My mom’s good,” I say simply, and before Brooke can press for details, our order is called from the counter in rapid-fire French.
“Perfect timing,” I mutter, pushing back my chair.
I weave through the cozy café, the smell of butter and caramelized onions getting stronger the closer I get.
The tray is warm in my hands when I pick it up, heavier than I expect, two generous slices of pissaladière still bubbling at the edges, a steaming bowl of lentil and sausage stew, and a basket of crusty bread that smells like heaven.
Carrying it back to the table, I feel something I haven’t in a long time: content. No conference rooms. No back-to-back meetings. Just good food, Paris, and Brooke Masters sitting across from me.
“Wow,” she says as I set the tray down, eyes lighting up at the spread.
I slide the plate toward her and tear a piece of bread for myself. “Trust me, this place is famous for this.”
I take a bite of the stew first, and holy hell, it’s incredible. Rich, smoky, a little spicy. The sausage practically melts in my mouth, and the lentils are hearty without being heavy. “Okay,” I say after swallowing, “remind me to fly to Paris more often. For research purposes, obviously.”
Brooke laughs, picking up a slice of pissaladière. “Obviously.”
She takes a bite, and I can’t help watching the way her lips curve when she does. She hums in approval. “Okay, this is good.”
“Right?” I grin, grabbing my own slice. The crust is crisp, the onions sweet and jammy, the anchovies salty and perfect. “See, this is what people miss when they stick to tourist traps, real food.”
“Real food and real company,” she teases, nudging my foot under the table.
I glance up, meeting her eyes. “Can’t argue with that.”
“So why are you avoiding talking about your mom?” she asks, spearing a piece of sausage with her fork.
I wince. “Caught that, huh?”
She raises a brow. “You’re about as subtle as a screaming baby on a red-eye.”
I let out a long breath, leaning back in my chair. “She’s just… Mom.” I run a hand through my hair, searching for the right words. “She didn’t want me moving to Paris, but I did. And then when I came back, she wanted me to move back home.”
“Oh,” Brooke says, and I know exactly what she’s thinking, I’m a grown man and still tethered to my mother. And she’s not wrong.
“My mom’s used to being with me,” I admit quietly.
“It’s been just the two of us my whole life.
And I felt guilty moving to France. I thought…
maybe if I put an ocean between us, it would give her time to build her own life.
Make friends. Date. Something.” I shrug, swirling the wine in my glass.
“But it’s like… nothing changed. She’s still the same. ”
Brooke studies me for a second, her expression softer now. “But you’re not.”
I shake my head. “No. I’m not.”
Her smile shifts, softer, but with that familiar teasing glint I remember. “How’s she with your girlfriends?”
I huff out a laugh, leaning back in my chair. “There haven’t been any since college. And back then, I took great pains to make sure they never met.”
She grins, eyes sparkling. “Oh, I’m well aware. Mr. Made-Me-Sneak-Down-the-Fire-Escape.”
My cheeks heat immediately, the memory crashing back, Brooke barefoot, holding her shoes, laughing breathlessly as she climbed down the narrow metal steps because my mom had come home early. God, I’d forgotten how much I loved that laugh.
“My mom can be… intense,” I admit, rubbing the back of my neck. “And I didn’t want her scaring you off.”
“Even when I was just a friend?” she asks, tilting her head.
I meet her gaze, steady and sure this time. “You were never just a friend.”
Brooke blinks, lips parting slightly, and then she bites down on her bottom lip, as a faint pink creeps across her cheeks.
“Huh,” she says, trying and failing to sound casual.
I put our empty bowls back onto the tray, needing to move before I do something stupid, like lean across the table and kiss her. “Ready?”
“Yeah,” she says, glancing around. “Where’s the bathroom?”
I point toward a narrow hallway near the back of the café. “Down there, second door on the left.”
While she’s gone, I take the tray back to the counter and settle the bill, my heart still thudding a little too fast. I’m smiling like an idiot, and the woman at the register notices, giving me a knowing little look I pretend not to see.
By the time Brooke returns, she’s tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and looks… lighter somehow, happier.
“Shall we?” she asks.
“Lead the way,” I reply.
We step back out into the street, and just like that, we’re walking again, side by side, our shoulders brushing now and then. Talking. Laughing. Smiling like no time has passed at all.
The afternoon stretches ahead of us, warm and lazy, and neither of us is in a rush to end it.
We wander aimlessly through cobbled backstreets and sun-dappled boulevards, following whatever catches our eye, a tiny bookshop that smells like dust and ink, a flower stand bursting with lavender and peonies, a street artist painting portraits near the Seine.
At one point, Brooke stops in front of a patisserie window, pressing her palm to the glass. “We’re getting those,” she declares, pointing at a tray of perfect little fruit tarts.
“Research purposes?” I tease.
“Exactly,” she says, grinning as we step inside.
We eat the tarts on a park bench overlooking the river, talking about everything and nothing, old professors we hated, the places we still want to see, the people we used to be.
The conversation flows easily, the way it always did, and every now and then, our knees bump or our hands brush and neither of us pulls away.
By the time the sky starts to turn gold and the city softens into twilight, we’ve circled half of Paris on foot. My feet ache and my cheeks hurt from smiling, but I don’t care.
Because somewhere between the quiet backstreets and the stolen glances, I realize I’m not just walking next to Brooke.
I’m falling for her all over again.