25. Claire
25
CLAIRE
T hen .
I hang my head between my hands and close my eyes. The steam from the cup of tea tickles my nose and warms my face.
I know that when you live someplace long enough, you’re supposed to acclimate to the climate.
Three years in and I haven’t. Instead, my soft, Southern skin reacts to Europe like an allergy. My face is cracked and rough. My lips are peeling. I’ve broken out in stress hives. Nothing is the way it was supposed to be.
So much for dreams of bon-bons and French wine .
My Parisian dream has turned into a Parisian nightmare. The worst part of it all is that I can’t admit defeat. I’m too deep in it now, and I’ll keep kicking this dead horse until it kills me.
And it might kill me .
My aunt has made it clear she won’t tolerate indulgences of self-pity under her roof, so I have to lick my own wounds in public.
This little café has become my small escape.
I slip my fingers through my hair and look around. A couple is enjoying a cupcake between the two of them. A family of tourists counts out their coins on the counter. A man in a dark peacoat is flipping through his iPad.
One thing I like about Parisians: they don’t care. No one cares that I’m in the middle of a mental collapse. No one bothers to come check on me.
They leave me to suffer in peace, which is how I like it.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I sniffle in public.
The peacoat stands. He collects his suitcase, goes to the counter, thanks the barista in French, and leaves a tip before leaving.
It isn’t until the bell chimes that I realize that he’s left his book behind.
I get to my feet to run the book to him. If I can do one good deed today, maybe that’ll make getting out of bed worth it.
But when I see the cover, my breath catches.
It’s a weathered paperback copy of The Sacred Stallion . The first book in the Wild Hooves Chronicles . The cover has one of those old-school, thrift store–style watercolors of a horse rearing up against a sunset.
I used to devour these books when I was a little girl.
Page after page of animal fantasy. I spent hours escaping into a world of wild, anthropomorphized horses that had their own culture and politics. Herds clashed, heroes fought hard, and good always, always prevailed.
It was all a bit silly, maybe, but even now, when I’m far too old to be holding on to little-girl fantasies, I find myself getting sucked back in.
These books faded out of existence in the States. You could only find the rare copy, bruised and battered in a thrift store, a charming picture of the English teacher turned author in her eighties updo on the back.
What are the chances I’d run into this book here?
Before I know it, I’ve taken the seat, and I’ve completely forgotten about my bad mood. Instead, I’m cast away into the epic, fantastical world of wild horses.
I barely hear the bell chime as the café door opens and shuts.
“Engrossing, isn’t it?” a deep, British voice asks, and I nearly drop the book.
Peacoat is looking down at me, a small smile lifting the edge of his mouth.
“Sorry, I was just…I love these books. Or I used to. When I was younger.” My cheeks get hot. A grown woman caught reading a middle grade novel. I need to be euthanized.
I nudge the book toward him. “This probably belongs to your child.”
He touches the cover. He has large hands, with fingers that touch both corners of the book, adjusting it to line up with the table. “It doesn’t. It’s mine.”
I blink at him. He has black, curly hair. A clean shave. A nice, crisp suit. He looks like he stepped off the cover of a Fortune magazine…not the type of man to be caught dead reading middle grade animal fantasy.
I tell him, “No one writes about?—”
“Heroes anymore,” he finishes my thought. “I know.”
Those blue eyes meet mine. I’m burning again, but this heat rides lower.
He pushes the book back toward me .
“Hold on to it. It should be in the hands of someone who loves it.”
“But you’re reading it.”
“I’ve read it already.”
“Still. I have a copy at?—”
I almost say it.
Home .
But the Preacher Ranch hasn’t been my home for three years. And it won’t ever be again. My tongue stumbles over my words.
So why do I still find myself reaching for it like an amputee trying to scratch a phantom limb?
My handsome stranger cocks his head. “Can I get you a tea?”
“I have a cup.”
“Then what would be an acceptable way to convince you to spend more time with me?”
I can’t help the smile that lifts my lips. My skin, no longer used to the sensation, feels tight at the edges of my mouth. “You can sit.”
He does. I extend a hand. “Claire Preacher.”
“Claire.” He says my name like a prayer. He takes my hand. “James Calloway.”