Page 1 of Angel Eyes

One

Juliet

“I’m sorry—he said what?”

Ember’s shriek ricocheted through my phone, and I yanked it away from my ear, her high pitch nearly taking out my left eardrum. Bailey barked somewhere in the background, and I snorted under my breath.

Good to know I’m not the only one afraid of my sister’s angry voice.

“Bailey, shush,” Ember said as her Jack Russell terrier abandoned his barking in favor of a low howl. She closed a door, muting the whine of Bailey’s protests. “Sorry, he’s such a drama queen.” She sniffed. “Now, tell me again—what exactly did Kyle say?”

“Um …” I shoved aside a box of kitchen supplies with my bare foot and crossed the living room of my new apartment.

Who knew Parisian buildings didn’t have air conditioning?

Unhooking the window latch, I pushed it open and welcomed the breeze sweeping my hair from my forehead. The scent of something freshly baked lingered in the air, and I peered down at the cobbled street littered with pedestrians, the sounds of laughter and rapid French reaching me from three stories above. Sunlight bounced off the blue-green surface of the Seine, and I watched it wind between the Left Bank and the Île Saint-Louis, a smile dancing on my lips.

Despite the hectic days leading up to my arrival, my chest fluttered with excitement now that I was here.

“Oh, my God, Em—there’s the cutest café across the street. It’s got these adorable red awnings and little cast-iron tables. Here, I’m sending you a picture—”

“Juliet Marie Chandler, stop stalling. Don’t make me fly to Paris to pry it out of you. I’ve got a stash of Girl Scout cookies, and I’m not afraid to use them.”

“Samoas or Thin Mints?”

“Both.”

I could practically hear the smugness in her tone, and it was all I could do not to make a face at her, never mind that she couldn’t see me.

“All right.” I released a sigh of resignation. “He said, ‘Be serious, Juliet. You aren’t capable of doing anything spontaneous.’” I repeated the words in a robotic monotone that mirrored the way I’d felt when Kyle had said it, as though all the life had been sucked out of me with that one curt brushoff.

Ember scoffed. “What a douche nozzle.”

I inhaled the warm summer air, propping my chin on one hand, as I monitored a scooter weaving its way down a street lined with shops and restaurants.

“Em, I love you, but you can’t call my boyfriend a douche nozzle. I’m pretty sure that violates sister code or something.” I put the phone on speaker and flipped to my messenger app, trying not to worry over the fact that Kyle had yet to reach out to me, even though it had been at least twelve hours since I’d left New York.

“Okay, how about douche canoe?”

I swallowed, registering that I still had no new messages. “Yeah, same problem.”

Part of me understood where Ember was coming from—after all, it was a pretty crappy thing to say to your girlfriend of four years. But the other part of me, the logical part, knew I was partially to blame for his outburst given my abrupt announcement that I was taking a leave of absence from our law firm to attend a summer creative writing program at the American University of Paris.

Though, to be fair, I never thought I would get in.

Like almost everything in my life, my decision to apply to the program was prompted by another person—my assistant, Grace. I still remember that day in March when she had slid into my office, silent as an assassin, with her hands behind her back and a lopsided grin pasted on her face.

The minute I clocked her expression, I should’ve known she was up to something.

“Don’t tell me—you won season tickets for the Yankees?” I glanced up from the share purchase agreement I was working on as she closed the door behind her with a soft click.

“No,” she singsonged, planting herself in the cushioned chair opposite me.

I tapped my fingers on the walnut surface of my desk, assessing her as she tucked one curl behind her ear, her other hand remaining conspicuously behind her back.

“Is Anthropologie having another sale? Because you know, Gracie, there is such a thing as having too many candles.”

The familiar ping of an email arriving in my inbox chimed, and my eyes darted to the computer screen. Tom. Senior partner and professional pain in the ass. No doubt he was already following up on the agreement I had only just started.

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