Then he crosses the street, and I have to skip to keep up with him. “Where are we going?”
“I know a place.”
The place turns out to be a plain concrete step that leads to an open door. A hand-painted sign above it says, Crepes. That’s when I realize it’s his break. “You must be hungry.”
“It’s hard to find decent food close to the musée. Lots of tourist traps.” This looks like the opposite of a tourist trap. There are tables crammed together, something faintly off key playing on an old speaker, and no menus in sight.
He gestures to a table and holds out the wood-and-plastic chair for me. I sit down and clasp my hands nervously on the thin red-and-white checkered tablecloth. He holds out his hand, and for a moment I have the inane thought that he’s asking me to dance. That’s how he looks, like some kind of courtier in a royal ball. Then I realize he’s looking at my backpack.
“Oh,” I say. “No. I’m good. It’s really comfortable.”
He looks skeptical, but he sits down across from me and kicks out his legs away from the wall.
I feel like I have to explain. “It’s kind of a family rule, not to let go of my backpack while we’re exploring. My dad’s a little overprotective. That probably sounds silly.”
“It sounds… nice, actually.”
“What are you doing in Paris anyway?”
He shrugs. “Work.”
“Yeah, but it seems like strange work for an American.”
That earns me a small smile. “Yeah, it’s strange.”
My cheeks heat. “I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Nah, don’t worry about it. I can guard anything, so why not art? Better than being the security guard at a mall, right? And the pay is better, too.”
“You’re different than the other security guards.”
He raises one eyebrow. “More handsome, you mean?”
I have to laugh at the brazen flirting even though it’s true. The rest of the guards seem like a dour, serious lot. Meanwhile he’s taking smoke breaks and asking out random girls. There’s something odd about him, about his presence, but I can’t put my finger on it. “Do they make you learn about the art?”
“They probably don’t think I could understand it, and the truth is, I’m about that clueless. But I read the little signs when the rooms are empty.”
I sigh. “That sounds so lovely, to be there when it’s empty.”
“It’s kind of unnerving, actually.”
“Is it?” Without meaning to, I eye his broad shoulders and muscular arms. He doesn’t seem like someone who’s afraid of anything, especially empty rooms.
He makes a face. “You can’t tell anyone, but I’ve always been freaked out by ghosts and shit like that. They say there are multiple ghosts in the Louvre.”
“Have you seen any?”
“No, but I’m glad I don’t work the mummy wing,” he says fervently, and I laugh.
A plump woman bustles out of the kitchen carrying two plates. She sets them in front of us with a quick burst of French. In another moment she returns with silverware.
I blink. “Do they only serve one thing?”
He laughs without a sound. “No, but the look on your face is perfect. I usually come here for lunch, and I texted for her to make two crepes instead of one.”
I stick out my tongue. “I thought maybe it was an authentic French thing.”
“No, even native Parisians like choices.” He cuts the corner of his crepe and takes a bite. His eyes close in something like rapture, and there’s a strange tightening in my body.
My stomach growls. “I guess I was hungry.”
“Blueberry,” he says, taking another mouthful. I wish I could be as unselfconscious as him. Or maybe he’s too hungry to care. How long is a shift at the museum? I don’t know, but I’ve never had to work, not even part-time jobs over the summer.
I cut a piece with my fork and take a bite. I’ve had crepes before, of course. They’re everywhere here in Paris—at the airport, in little stands scattered around the Eiffel Tower. I’ve even eaten one at a Michelin-starred restaurant, but it didn’t compare to the simple perfection of this one. The crepe is a perfect combination of soft and crisp. The blueberries are fresh. The cream makes my own eyes roll back. “Oh my God,” I moan. “You have this every day?”
When I open my eyes again, he’s staring at me intently.
I force myself to swallow.
“So, Holly. What’s a girl like you doing out on your own?”
“A girl like me?”
“Pretty. And young.”
A flush suffuses my cheeks. “My family’s around.”
One eyebrow rises as if to say, I don’t see them anywhere.
“My sister and parents went to see the gardens. They don’t like to linger.”
“And you do?”
“That’s all I like to do, really. Take things slow. I’m too slow for them.”
“Or they don’t stop and appreciate what they have.”
Defensiveness grows in me even though I’ve thought the same things about them. “They’re these world travelers, okay? Other people dream of going places, but they just pack a bag and go do it. That’s something to be admired.”
He shrugs, looking unimpressed. “It’s easy to leave places. You never have to clean up after yourself, never have to see people live and then die, never have to grieve because you’re already gone. Believe me, I know the appeal.”
“You don’t know them.”
He leans forward, green eyes intense. “Maybe not, but I know you. I know the way you watched people like you weren’t one of them. Saw the way you wanted to belong.”
Embarrassment clenches my chest. “Is that why you asked me out? Pity?”
“Pity.” A sharp laugh. “A girl with clothes that cost as much as my rent? No, sweetheart. I don’t pity you. And I asked you out because I want to kiss you.”
A new awareness straightens my spine. “You do?”
He waves his hand. “Not here.”
I glance around as if there’s going to be some kind of kissing booth with a sign. I’ve never been kissed by a boy. Whenever we go to parties together, London ends up in one of the bedrooms upstairs with a boy. I’m usually on the back porch reading a book on my phone. “Where, then?”
“Come out with me tonight?”
“What? I can’t.”
He shrugs. “Maybe you won’t, but a smart girl like you? I bet you can.”
I narrow my eyes. “Where are we gonna go?”
“Does it matter?” he counters.
And he’s right. It doesn’t matter. Because if I meet him, he’s going to kiss me. With his pretty green eyes and his harsh mouth, his leather jacket and his work shirt.
My first kiss will happen in the most romantic city in the world.
If I can work up the nerve to lie.
CHAPTER THREE
I text my sister and meet up with the family outside the Arc de Triomphe. We grab an XL Uber back to the hotel, which is a building of apartments from the 1800s that have been converted to suites. It’s a boutique hotel owned by a major conglomerate. Old-world charm meets modern-day convenience. That perfectly describes my family. They love to explore, but they don’t mind the occasional tourist trap as long as it treats us well.