Page 10 of Angel Eyes

I had always been allergic to popular girls.

My eyes flicked back to Simone, then down to the blank document open on my screen, the cursor blinking ominously. I had yet to make any progress on an original piece for the NRF competition, and after three days of false starts, my anxiety was getting the better of me.

“That’s thoughtful of you, but I should stay and work on this.”

She folded her arms, popping out a hip. “Oh, come on. You look like you could use a break. Just a quick midafternoon coffee and then you can get back to it.”

I hesitated, glancing indecisively between Simone’s beaming face and the empty page in front of me. I heaved a sigh. Maybe a caffeine boost wouldn’t be so bad.

“Sure, why not?”

We arrived at the café fifteen minutes later to find it already packed with patrons, but we still managed to find a couple of unoccupied seats. Simone and I took a table near a window that opened out on to the sidewalk while Marlena and the others claimed a larger one a few feet away. The scent of freshly ground coffee beans wafted through the airy space, and music filtered from in-ceiling speakers, giving the entire place a trendy vibe.

“This place is great, huh?” Simone took a sip from her ceramic espresso cup.

“Yeah, I can see how people would be into it.” I took inventory of the modern décor and stainless-steel barista station. “Not really my scene though.”

“Oh?” She arched an eyebrow, setting her cup down with a clink. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who prefers vintage hole-in-the-wall coffee shops.”

On impulse, I let my eyes drop to the reclaimed wood surface of the table, sketching out a pattern with my fingernail. “Ah, well …”

“Oh, you so are.” She clicked her tongue. “Such a typical New Yorker. I bet you already have a place scoped out here in Paris, don’t you?”

“No,” I lied.

She gave me a piercing look that told me she saw through the denial, but I let the silence stretch. Simone seemed nice enough, but I wouldn’t put money on her ability to keep the information to herself. She might let something slip, and before I knew it, Café Procope would be overrun with university students. The thought alone was enough to make me break out in hives.

No—Café Procope was my private oasis, the one place I could go where no one would find me, and I intended for it to stay that way. There was only one person who knew my secret, one person who, by some twist of fate, now knew more about me than anyone else in Paris.

And I would likely never see him again.

I wasn’t going to call him. At least, that’s the mantra I had repeated for the rest of the afternoon on Tuesday while I finished up my coffee, jotted down a few ideas for a story, and eventually packed up to make the short trek home. But by the time I reached the apartment, my resolve had already weakened. I could use a guide around Paris, someone familiar with the city who knew the best art exhibitions and places of interest. Plus, he offered, so it wasn’t like I would be imposing.

And, I had added in my head as I paced my living room hours later, it has nothing to do with the swooping sensation I get every time I think of him.

Definitely not.

Giving up the fight, I lunged for the couch where I had dumped my purse earlier, rooting around in it for the napkin with his number. And nothing. I turned the bag upside down, even flipped through each of my books in case it’d become lodged between the pages.

No dice. The number was gone.

For the rest of the week, I had tried to convince myself it was for the best. Except, every time I thought of it, my stomach plummeted about a thousand feet before I remembered I had only met him twice and caring this much about a complete stranger was insane. So, I pushed it out of my head and focused on things I could control. Like getting started on my piece for the magazine.

Simone tapped her French-tipped nails on the table. “Earth to Juliet. Where’d you go, girl?”

“Sorry,” I said, scratching the tip of my nose. “I’m a bit scatterbrained today. I’ve got this project I’m working on for Benoit, and I can’t figure out where to start.”

She hummed. “And the plot thickens. First, you’re an all-star in class and now you have a project for Benoit. Seems like you’re the one to watch.”

A trickle of laughter bubbled out of my throat just as a woman in all black approached our table. “Hi there,” she said, removing a pair of aviators and tucking them into her tank top. “You two university students?”

“Yeah.” Simone gave the woman a once-over. “How did you know?”

“Educated guess. This place is pretty popular with students, being so close to campus.”

“Do you go to the university?” I asked. In truth, she looked more like an intelligence agent than a student with her sleek haircut and dark clothes, to say nothing of the British accent. Only the messenger bag slung over her shoulder suggested otherwise.

“Nope. Name’s Nora Russell. My husband and I run a cycling shop on the other side of town.” She retrieved a flyer from her bag and shoved it toward me before fishing out one for Simone.

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