Chapter Seventeen Make the Most of It
Chapter Seventeen
Make the Most of It
Frankie
“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” I ask Charles for the third time.
He looks more tired than usual, a little pale around the edges. Though to be fair, I’m probably not winning any beauty contests either.
We flew from JFK to CDG—that’s New York to Paris, for the uninitiated—on an overnight flight. And we are now sitting in the charming hotel lobby, picking through the complimentary continental breakfast.
It’s one of the many things I’ve come to appreciate about Charles.
You’d think he’d be more snooty for a billionaire, but he’s perfectly content with a free breakfast spread.
And obviously, so am I. Why wander the streets in search of a boulangerie when there are perfectly good croissants downstairs?
He waves off my concern. “Not you too.”
“Just asking.” I smile and take a sip of my café au lait—just coffee with milk, but it sounds far more romantic in French. It’s also out-of-this-world good. And my pain au chocolat croissant is so flaky and delicate, it basically evaporates on my tongue.
“I’m doing just fine,” Charles says, patting my hand.
The quiet hum of morning conversation blends with the soft clink of porcelain cups.
The boutique hotel lobby is elegant, downright cinematic.
Sunlight filters through tall, arched windows, casting a golden glow over the black-and-white checkered marble floors.
Deep emerald velvet chairs surround gold-trimmed round tables, each topped with a single fresh flower in a delicate vase.
The air smells like espresso and warm pastries.
I’ve been here all of a few hours, and I already love Paris.
“Did you get today’s Wordle?” he asks, glancing toward my phone.
I’m mid-text to Tessa, who I saw once for a wine-and-wedge after returning from Hawaii. Now she’s apparently in crisis mode.
Tessa: I need you to remain calm.
Frankie: That’s never going to happen, but continue.
“I haven’t played yet, so don’t spoil it for me, Charlie boy.” I grin.
“I’m stuck on the last guess. There’s a P and a T, that’s all I’ve got.”
“La la la,” I say, sticking my fingers in my ears. “I can’t hear you.”
He frowns, then laughs, shaking his head. I go back to texting.
Tessa: I may or may not be dating a man who unironically calls himself “Big D.”
I nearly choke.
Frankie: . . . Please tell me that’s just a dumb nickname.
Tessa: His actual name is Darren.
Frankie: Oh, thank God. For a second, I thought you were dating a walking meme.
Tessa: Well, I haven’t ruled that out yet.
Frankie: How did this happen? Why did this happen? Is this a cry for help?
Tessa: He’s hot. He has a motorcycle. He makes me laugh. And he once saved a duck from a storm drain.
Frankie: Damn it. That’s distressingly charming.
Tessa: I Know. This is why I texted you. Am I being delusional, or is this fate?
Frankie: Honestly? Fate. Or a very well-orchestrated mistake. Either way, I support the chaos.
Tessa: That’s why you’re my best friend.
Frankie: Right back atcha, girly.
Tessa: So, where are you these days? France, right?
I glance up. Charles is still frowning at his phone. “Pitch? Party? Patio?” I offer.
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t start with a P. It’s the third letter.”
I chew my lip. “I’ll keep noodling.”
Frankie: Yes, we’re in Paris for a few days, then heading to Nice. I think we leave from Antibes?
Tessa: Oh la la, so fancy. Have a blast. Send pictures.
Frankie: Will do.
“Input!” I blurt out.
A server in a crisp white shirt shoots me a look.
Sorry, I mouth, realizing I don’t know the French word for “apologies.” I’d studied the basics: Bonjour. Merci. S’il vous pla?t. Fromage.
“That’s it,” Charles says, typing the word with a grin.
“Happy to be of service.”
“So what would you like to do today?” he asks.
I shrug. “Something touristy? Or is that totally boring for you?”
He told me on the flight that he’s been to Paris more times than he can count. I worried that meant he’d reject doing the touristy things like the Eiffel Tower—which is at the top of my bucket list.
“I’d be happy to show you some of my favorite spots,” he says with a warm smile. And, not going to lie, that smile makes me irrationally happy. This trip? Kind of a once-in-a-lifetime thing for me.
“What are some of your favorites?”
“Montmartre. I can’t do all the steps, but you could explore the area, visit Sacré-C?ur. We could get our portraits sketched by a local street artist. We’ll definitely see the Eiffel Tower, though I’d skip the observation decks. The view’s better from the Arc de Triomphe anyway.”
I nod, excited. “What about the Mona Lisa?”
He removes his glasses, setting them on the table. “We can do the Louvre. I won’t last long walking around, but we could see the Mona Lisa, maybe a few other pieces.”
I’ve read about so many spots—the Catacombs, the Panthéon, Notre-Dame—but I know we won’t hit them all. Still, the day already feels wide open with possibility. And best of all, Hayes isn’t here to annoy me.
Winning.