Page 140 of Angel Eyes

“Oh, please. I suppose you would be equally impressed if he started throwing rocks too.”

Caleb’s cheeks reddened. “Check the body count, princess. No way can—”

“Excuse me,” Benoit interjected. “I hate to interrupt this riveting discussion, but might we be permitted to use the elevator?”

Caleb’s and Amélie’s startled gazes snapped to us, and Amélie straightened, flushing slightly. “Of course, monsieur. Please excuse us, we did not see you and your party waiting.”

I folded my lips between my teeth. Something told me when the two of them got into it, they didn’t see a lot of things.

“Juliet.” Caleb cast me a wide grin. “You actually came.”

Confusion pulled down the corners of mouth. “What do you mean actually?” I glanced around at the assembled group. “Is there something I should know?”

Caleb opened his mouth again, but Amélie clapped a hand over it. “Right this way,” she said, rushing to open the elevator doors. She gave me a lingering smile before pressing the button for the seventh floor. “Have fun.”

The doors glided shut, closing us in with a deafening silence. Tossing a look over my shoulder, my eyes bounced between Simone and Carter’s blank expressions before shifting to Benoit. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, but I didn’t miss the muscle twitching in his cheek.

“Okay, seriously, is no one going to tell me what’s going on?”

My accusatory tone was met with another wave of silence, and I was sorely tempted to stomp my foot in frustration. But before I could give in to the childish impulse, the doors swung open again to reveal a rooftop terrace buzzing with voices and clinking champagne glasses. I clamped my mouth shut as I stepped out of the elevator, my eyes drifting over the scene.

The open-air terrace glowed with beautiful string lights that swayed in the breeze above pedestal tables decorated with candles and white linen tablecloths. Wide cedar pergolas surrounded by lush greenery divided the space, and lavender from the rooftop garden scented the air. I blinked in astonishment as elegantly dressed men and women roamed between dove-gray benches and the stone railing overlooking the city before my eyes finally landed on my reflection in a gold arched mirror, its glossy finish covered in thick scroll writing.

La Nouvelle Revue Française welcomes you to its 2024 Paris Writers Networking Event.

I sucked in a breath, my hand flying to the base of my throat as Benoit drew up beside me, his warm eyes sparkling. He gently took my elbow, leading me out onto the terrace.

“But how?” I croaked. “I thought—”

“Julien, my dear friend.” A man with a hairstyle worthy of Patrick Dempsey sauntered toward us, lifting a tumbler of amber liquid in greeting.

“Ah, the man of the hour. An impressive event, as always, André.”

André clicked his tongue, his expression turning severe. “Well, it almost didn’t happen if you can believe it.”

“Oh, why is that?” Benoit asked, his lips twitching in an almost imperceptible grin.

“Our original venue met with the most unexpected accident two days ago. One of the main water pipes burst, causing damage to the flooring, and the owners were forced to cancel all events for the next several weeks.” He shook his head. “They put us in an impossible position. With the event only thirty-six hours away, we were sure we would have to cancel. But then, out of the blue, our program coordinator received an offer from this place. Quite fortunate, actually.” He peered around, his expression brightening. “I think we might host the event here next year as well. Our guests were tired of stuffy ballrooms anyway,” he finished with a conspiratorial grin. His eyes ticked to me. “And who is this petite fleur?”

“This is my student, Juliet Chandler,” Benoit said, a flicker of pride lighting his features. “Juliet, may I introduce André Laurent, the editor-in-chief of the NRF.”

André’s eyes widened. “Mademoiselle Chandler.” He swirled his drink, giving me a regretful look. “I read your submission, and I must say I was disappointed I couldn’t feature it in our latest issue. If only it were up to me, I would have, but there is a panel of judges that oversees the competition, and some of them are rather prickly traditionalists.”

“I hope you are not referring to me,” Benoit said in a dry tone, eyeing his friend.

My eyes widened. “You were a judge for the competition?”

“Not this year,” he said with a soft smile. “But in years past, yes.”

“Yes,” André agreed ruefully, “that is until he abandoned me to focus on academia full time. Incredibly selfish of him, wouldn’t you say, Juliet?” A laugh bubbled out of my throat as Benoit released an exasperated breath. “But in all seriousness, I would love to have you submit your piece again. We have a smaller competition in the spring if you’re interested. That is, if another publication hasn’t snapped you up by then.”

“In that case, you very well may be disappointed, André.”

Our eyes swiveled in unison to a woman gliding toward us, batting a hand through her chin-length hair before smoothing it over her black lace gown.

“Ah,” André grunted. “Another traitor.”

“Traitor?” Her eyes glinted with amusement. “Is that what you call your favorite protégée?

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