Page 147 of Charming Deception

“Maybe this one will surprise you, Jameson.”

Yeah. I fucking hope so.

Chapter 32

Megan

Paris is, as I assumed it would be, ridiculously amazing.

As our limo slides through the streets of the central arrondissements, I can picture the city in partial ruins, the beautiful historic buildings reclaimed by nature, green foliage climbing up the crumbled walls in some distant, postapocalyptic future.

Because that’s just how my twisted mind works.

In the here and now, though, I can’t get over the intricate artistry of the buildings in pale pinks and blues and creams, block after block, the history that seems to whisper from every ornate old door and window we pass.

“Canada is so young,” I marvel. “I can’t get over the old buildings.”

“Wait until we get to Berlin,” Jameson says. “It’s quite different. Paris wasn’t destroyed in World War II, so the old buildings are very much intact, whereas much of Berlin has been rebuilt.”

My eyes go wide as I envision it.

“It fascinates you, doesn’t it?” He tips his chin up and studies me. “That intersection between the past and the future.”

“How did you know?” I breathe, like I’m an addict and he just shot me up with my favorite drug.

His lips quirk. “I’m reading your books, remember? The desolate landscape littered with relics of the past, where people struggle to survive in the distant future? If you weren’t interested in the way the two time periods touch each other, you could’ve set your story somewhere else.”

“I could’ve.”

“What interests you so much about that juxtaposition?”

“Hmm.” I’ve never been asked this before. Mainly because I’ve rarely chatted with anyone about my books.

Suddenly, I feel shy.

“I guess it makes everything feel like it doesn’t belong together. The world is at odds with itself, and with the people in it. As humans, the hero and heroine of the book are trespassers in nature, and we get to see that, in those relics left behind, and in the way the natural world reclaims itself when humanity fails. Wolf and Rowan adapt and survive, but they’re always on the razor’s edge of survival. It’s not guaranteed.” I hesitate. “Maybe I like not knowing how it will end. And I like readers not knowing how it will end, but still rooting for a happy ending, as improbable as it may seem. I think… I long for a happy ending in a world where there shouldn’t be one.”

Jameson’s furrowed gaze is locked on to mine. “Then write that happy ending.”

“Maybe I will…”

I gaze out the window.

We’re circling the Arc de Triomphe now, where it seems that six or more unmarked lanes of traffic are weaving through one another. I can’t believe we’re not hitting any other vehicles, but maybe it’s always been this way.

Things often stay the same, until one day, they break.

“Maybe I just can’t envision it yet.”

* * *

I make Jameson be an absolute shameless tourist with me, and have the limo drop us off at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. I’m thrilled to discover there’s a freaking carousel right there, across the street.

Naturally, I insist he ride it with me while Locke takes commemorative photos of us.

“That’s so going on your Instagram,” I tell him as I send the best one to Clara. In the photo, Jameson is riding on a white horse. While wearing a three-piece suit.

He probably expected to be in the air-conditioned limo and/or fine restaurants all day.

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