Page 17 of Angel Eyes

The kitchen was outfitted with sleek appliances and granite countertops and opened on to the main living space, which was furnished with a mixture of classic and contemporary furniture.

“Make yourself at home,” she said, toeing off her shoes and throwing me a quick smile. She disappeared down a hallway, and I shoved my hands in my pockets, turning and making a slow circuit of the room.

The living room had floor-to-ceiling paneling with carved molding, and across from a pair of cream-colored sofas was a marble fireplace, its iron grate clean with a pile of firewood sitting nearby, untouched. I ran a hand over the dust-free mantel. In all likelihood, Juliet wouldn’t use the fireplace if she only planned to stay for the summer.

Something in my chest stirred at the thought of Juliet’s impending departure. Before I could examine why my heart wanted to trade places with my stomach at the idea of her leaving, she returned wearing a crew neck T-shirt, her hair tied up in a ponytail.

“I hope you like chicken and roasted vegetables.” She glided into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, pulling out handfuls of carrots and potatoes. “Unless you’re a vegetarian, in which case, it’ll just be roasted veggies.”

“Chicken and vegetables sound perfect.”

She moved around the kitchen with practiced precision, and I slid onto a bar stool, watching her. “Is there anything I can do?”

She ducked out of sight, her momentary disappearance followed by the clanging of pots and pans. She popped back up from behind the counter, holding a baking sheet in one hand, a cast-iron skillet in the other.

“Yes, there is.” She extracted her phone from a back pocket before holding it out to me. “Want to pick some music? I’ve got a few different playlists, but if you don’t see anything you like …”

I shook my head before she could finish her sentence. No way was I passing up on a chance to see what kind of music she liked.

“I’m sure I’ll find something.”

I picked a playlist at random and scrolled through the list of songs, some familiar and some not. I was pleased to find that instead of a mix of Top 40 hits, her taste seemed more eclectic with a mixture of indie folk, alternative rock, and even some jazz.

I paused, my finger hovering over one song in particular.

“You like Petit Biscuit?” I blinked at her in surprise.

She looked up from the carrots she was chopping. “Um, yeah. Why?”

I batted away a grin. “Nothing. I just didn’t expect to find a French DJ in your playlist. I love his songs.”

“I like to think great music is universal.” Leaning over the kitchen island, she selected “Sunset Lover,” the dulcet tones drifting across the room from a Bluetooth speaker. Something solid lodged itself in my throat as I listened to the opening notes of one of my favorite songs.

Juliet moved to draw her hand back, but as she did, her fingers brushed against mine. I looked up on instinct, the hair on the back of my neck rising when our eyes collided. An unreadable emotion flitted across her expression, and she swallowed, her delicate throat moving with the action.

“So,” she said, resuming her chopping with fervor, “are you originally from Paris?”

Small talk. We were moving on from whatever the hell moment that was to small talk.

“No.” I scrubbed my knuckles over the side of my face. “I’m from a town called Villefranche-sur-Mer along the southern coast. I moved to Paris a few years back.”

She hummed, depositing the carrots into a bowl, and I tracked her movements, noting a slight tremor in her hands as she began dicing the potatoes. Did I make her nervous? I was tempted to take the knife from her before she hurt herself. Except that would involve me touching her again, which I absolutely should not do.

“Did your family come with you to Paris?”

A record scratched in my mind.

My family. It was a normal question, practically a mandatory inclusion in any getting-to-know-you conversation. Unfortunately, my family was my least favorite topic.

“No.” My tone was brusque, and her eyes shot up, no doubt because I sounded like a complete ogre. “My, uh, father and cousin still live there.” I think. I hadn’t spoken to either of them in years, so I couldn’t say for sure. “What about you?” I pushed on before I was forced to sidestep more awkward questions. “Where are you from?”

She frowned but replied without missing a beat. “New York. I moved there when I was eight to live with my grandparents after my parents died in a car accident. Before that, my sister and I lived in a town on the coast of Maine since our dad was a commercial fisherman.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear about your parents.” I knew the feeling of that kind of loss all too well, having lost my mother when I was a teenager.

Juliet’s expression softened. “Thanks. It was a long time ago. My grandparents took great care of my sister and me, making sure we were in the best schools and were well provided for. I think, in a way, caring for us helped them cope with the loss of my mother.”

I nodded, processing this information and filing it away with everything else I’d learned about Juliet over the past week. A writer from New York who likes art and Petit Biscuit. Born in a coastal town like me. Raised by grandparents and has one sister.

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