Page 7 of Angel Eyes

“Sure, shoot.”

“I was just wondering, why are you hiding away in this relic of a café?” I followed his eyes as he surveyed the room with its antique tables and oval-backed chairs, dusty chandeliers, and green-gray walls replete with framed oil paintings. “I am surprised this place even has electricity.”

I huffed a laugh. “Excuse me, I’ll have you know this café was the preferred haunt of some of the greatest writers in history. Victor Hugo, George Sand, Paul Verlaine, to name a few.”

He arched an eyebrow at me. “Are you a walking encyclopedia?”

I shrugged. “No, but as it happens, the world’s first encyclopedists were also regulars here.”

His face lit up as a laugh burst from him, and—uh-oh. I felt it again. That pitching beneath my sternum.

Gah.

“As fascinating as that is, you haven’t answered my question. What brings you here?”

“I’m a writer.” I fiddled with the napkin on my lap. “That’s why I’ve come to Paris for the summer and to this café. I want to surround myself with the presence of those who changed the world with the power of their words. I want to be inspired by what inspired them.”

“I see. And do you plan to spend your entire time in Paris writing in corners by candlelight?”

I pressed my lips into a thin line, swallowing a smile. “Actually, I was hoping to visit some art museums too. Even though my weapon of choice is the pen rather than the paintbrush, I’ve always found illustrative works to be as inspiring as the written word. Literature and art are two sides of the same coin. They sort of belong together.”

In an instant, his expression changed from a look of mild amusement to one of … longing? I blinked, and the look was gone. Maybe I imagined it.

Taking out a pen, he wrote something on a napkin before handing it to me.

“My phone number,” he said, rising to stand, “in case you want some company on your journey to find inspiration.”

Three

Gabriel

“God, I’m such an idiot.”

I slumped on the couch beside the front window of Le Peloton Café, scrolling through my phone. For the better part of an hour, I’d tried to focus on reading emails from prospective art dealers but eventually had given up.

My head just wasn’t in it today.

Against my better judgment, I checked my messages for the tenth time in as many minutes. But other than a reminder about an art exhibition I planned to attend later in the week, there were no new items in my inbox.

“Well, of course, you’re a bloody idiot. I could have told you that.”

I looked up, staring daggers at James behind the front desk of the cycling shop that doubled as a café. He stood folded over a clipboard with the weekly tour schedule.

“Right.” I scratched my cheek. “Remind me why I hang out with you again?”

“Because I’m your best mate, and we both know you would be lost without me.”

I scoffed and leaned over to prop open the window, letting the fresh air filter in and mix with the scent of coffee, new tires, and recycled oxygen.

“I see someone has an overinflated opinion of himself.”

He smiled, pushing a hand through his ginger hair as he scratched out a quick note on the schedule. “Whatever you have to tell yourself, buddy.”

As much as we liked to mess around, James was, in fact, my best friend and had been ever since I’d moved to Paris.

I met the British expat and professional cyclist by pure coincidence when I’d stopped in this very café looking for a bite of breakfast one morning. I’d left with a croissant and, rather unexpectedly, plans to return the following Saturday for a bike tour of Paris. At the time, the idea of joining a bunch of tourists bicycling around the city and gawking at sites like the Louvre Museum and the Eiffel Tower had sounded like its own brand of hell. But James’s enthusiasm had been infectious, so I caved in the end.

To my surprise, I actually enjoyed the tour. James turned out to be quite the expert on French history and had shown us several sites off the beaten path, including a house built by the famed alchemist Nicolas Flamel. As a Harry Potter fan, I had to admit that was pretty cool.

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