Page 4 of Angel Eyes

Almost got it.

I never even saw him coming. The bridge wasn’t particularly crowded, just a few passing scooters and people on foot, so I should have noticed another bike. But I didn’t.

No sooner had I taken the picture than I lost my balance and veered into the left lane, colliding head-on with someone riding the opposite way. In seconds, we went sprawling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and bicycles, only narrowly avoiding falling into the river.

“Mon Dieu,” came a voice from somewhere over my head. “Êtes-vous blessée?”

He was already back on his feet and coming over to help me up as I climbed onto my hands and knees, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment.

“I am so incredibly sorry.” I took his outstretched hand, silently berating myself for being so careless. Fortunately, he didn’t seem injured, though I wasn’t sure the same could be said for his bike laying a few feet away, the front wheel now bent at an awkward angle.

How did these things work in Europe? Was I supposed to give him my insurance information? Wait, did my insurance even cover bicycle accidents?

I was so lost in thought about liability coverage that it was several seconds before I looked up. And then I did—straight into the eyes of the most incredible being I had ever seen.

Dark glossy curls formed a halo around a face that could only be described as a collection of godlike features, his long lashes framing irises of deepest blue, as though hewn from sapphire. He was saying something, but I couldn’t register a single word.

Am I dying? Is this an angel sent to welcome me to the gates of heaven?

All around us, people were stopping, but still I knelt in front of the Man-God, holding his hand, warm and solid, my gaze locked with his.

A car horn beeped, and I blinked, emerging from my stupor. Apparently, a crowd had gathered during my moment of transcendence and several people now stood around staring at me, their expressions a mixture of amusement and incredulity.

It didn’t take long for me to realize why.

In the confusion of nearly tumbling to my death, my skirt had risen above my hips and my underwear, complete with pink hearts, was now on full display.

I yanked my skirt down as I stumbled to my feet, humiliation washing over me.

Why, why couldn’t I just have a bike accident like a normal person without flashing half of Paris in the process?

I didn’t look at the Man-God again as I wrestled my bike from the ground, hopped on as fast as my traitorous skirt would allow, and pedaled away.

Despite my morning catastrophe, I made it to class just as our professor, Julien Benoit, was handing out copies of A Compilation of Classics. I shuffled into a seat near the back of the room while he summarized the syllabus before launching into a discussion of Dumas’s The Count of Monte Cristo and the elements of nineteenth-century romanticism.

For the next hour, we each took turns reading passages aloud, and I smiled when we came across a particular line that I had dog-eared in my copy back home.

Happiness is like one of those palaces on an enchanted island, its gates guarded by dragons. One must fight to gain it.

Too right you are, Monsieur Dumas.

It was still so surreal to be here discussing one of my favorite classics on a Tuesday instead of back in the office mining through one of Tom’s task lists. I glanced around at the group of like-minded individuals, feeling a sense of gratitude. For whatever reason, whether by fate or serendipity, I had been given this opportunity, and I was going to make the most of it, starting with hanging on to Professor Benoit’s every word.

Well, almost every word.

Despite my efforts to concentrate, my mind kept drifting to a singular pair of blue eyes, conjuring images of an azure sky, of a deep sea streaked with dappled sunlight …

“Ms. Chandler?” My head snapped up at the sound of my name, only to find Professor Benoit watching me expectantly. “I’d be curious to hear your thoughts.”

“Oh.” I blinked several times as I tried to recall the question. “I believe …”

To my left, a woman with long braids coughed as she shoved her notebook to the edge of the desk, a few words scribbled hastily into the margin.

Theme of the book.

Right.

“I believe,” I tried again, straightening in my chair, “the work attempts to reflect the division of the main characters into categories of good and evil. For example, Danglars and Maximilien, with the former being evil and the latter being good.”

---