Page 94 of From Fling to Ring

“Tyler. Tyler Brooks. Yeah, that fell apart. For a variety of reasons. It’s just as well. I’m not the kind of person to date some famous athlete. I’m not much of a sports fan and I never really could understand hockey, anyway. The game is too violent for me. Fast, too.”

She nods. “I’m sorry to hear that. I thought you two were good together. Like the time you brought him to our office. He was so friendly with everyone, and every now and then he would look over your way, like he was checking in. Making sure you were okay.”

I swallow hard. “He did that?” I ask, my voice squeaking.

I never noticed. Maybe that was the point. Maybe there are some things you’re not supposed to notice. Sometimes you just need to trust that people have your back without making some kind of huge announcement about it.

Still, he was going out with me to win a bet. I can’t forget that.

“You know, Michaela, there were some really nice things about him. But also some I couldn’t live with.”

“It’s good to learn those things sooner rather than later, isn’t it? Say, I’m going to let you go, honey. I need to start my day. Keep in touch, okay?”

A pang of sadness washes over me, which also pisses me off. For cripes’ sake, I’m in Paris, the one place I’ve dreamt about my entire life.

And yet I’m smacked in the face with the reality that no matter where you are, you always want the comfort of home. However you can get it.

After my call, I gather up my books and take them to my small room. I figure I’ll go over my French exercises in bed until I’m sleepy.

Then I’ll get up tomorrow and do it all over again.

50

LUCY

I drop the kids off at school and before the huge doors close behind them, they turn and give me a little wave. As they head inside, I can hear them immediately fall into speaking French with the other kids. It’s all so sweet and leaves me missing the comforts and familiarity of home more than ever.

With an hour to kill before my French class begins, I settle into one of the gazillion cafés near the school to order an espresso and a croissant and do some last-minute studying. There’s one place in particular I like that’s pretty inexpensive, at least compared to the others, probably in an effort to cater to broke students. It’s not as nice as other cafes around and their croissants are kind of dry, but I’m okay with that.

I order my stuff at the counter and while I’m paying, someone behind me explodes with a huge bon-JOR in about the worst American accent I’ve heard since I’ve been here. I smile at the cashier, as if my own French is so good—which it is not—and head to my usual table in the corner where I can look out the window at everyone passing by.

“Bon-JOR,” the same American voice repeats.

Oh man. I so do not feel like being chatted up by some American tourist who will want to know what I’m doing in Paris and why, and how crazy I am to be in a city where English is not the first language.

But I don’t want to be snotty, so I turn around with a smile on my face. I’ll just explain I’m studying for my class and am pressed for time. People always understand if you say you have homework to do.

Not so fast.

I twist in my seat, enough to be polite but certainly not enough to indicate I’m interested in chatting.

At first all I see is a wall of man. To be more specific, a broad chest encased in a white button-up shirt, fitted just enough to outline a lean but muscular physique. A massive pair of hands are poised on his hips, propping open a navy-blue sports jacket and leaving me eye-level with a belt buckle and the fly of his dark-wash blue jeans.

“Bon-JOR,” he repeats.

Oh God.

My heart flips in my chest and my hands start to shake. Espresso, which I don’t even really like anyway, slurps out of my cup, which I try to set down on the table before the dark mud spills all over my blue jeans. I only have two pair with me and I told myself no shopping until Frenchie pays me.

It crosses my mind that I’m hallucinating, having overdosed on homesickness and lack of local friends. I want to run. Or at least throw my croissant at him.

But no. There Tyler Brooks stands, devastatingly handsome and surprisingly elegant. As if someone told him to step it up and not wear his Aftershocks sweatshirt and hat because flying all the way to Paris from California, and hunting me down, was serious shit and he needed to look the part.

I open my mouth to speak but my heart seems to have lodged itself in my throat and besides, I have no idea what to say, anyway.

“Bon-JOR,” he repeats.

“Your French sucks, you know.”

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