Page 23 of Ticket to You

13

OPHELIA

Apparently,I didn’t hide my face quickly enough, because I hear Adam chuckle softly as he closes the bathroom door behind him.

You shouldn’t be able to be hot and an asshole.

When Adam leaves the bathroom a second time, he’s fully dressed, now in a plain, well-fitting white tee, jeans, and Adidas sneakers. Simple, yet classic.

“Should we grab lunch before we go?” Adam asks. “The bellboy said there’s a nice restaurant in the hotel.”

I cringe, remembering how high the bill was when Jane Sommerland and I ate here on our lastAteliertrip to Paris. “Or we can grab something from a little bakery or a food stand.”

Adam shrugs and secures his film camera over one shoulder as I do with my digital camera. “You’re the guide. The bellboy also said they have bikes we can borrow for free for the day.”

“Perfect.”

Knowing he’s far more experienced on a bike than me, I expect Adam to leave me in the dust. But he rolls right by my side the entire time. We bike along the streets lined with tall white buildings and wrought-iron balconies and through the Tuileries Garden until we break through the trees to see the Eiffel Tower in all her glory. Just like when I was twenty-two, I’m speechless at the sight of it. My chest swells and my face breaks into a massive grin. Even Adam can’t ruin a moment like this.

We cross the Seine River, circle the Tower three times to get every a picture from every angle, and stop by a bakery for a quick lunch. In the windows of the bakery, there are tall rainbow towers of perfectly-stacked macarons. My mouth waters immediately.

“You have to try these,” I insist, eyes glued to the cookies. “They taste even more beautiful than they look, believe it or not.”

“I’m alright,” Adam shrugs. “I’ll stick to my croissant.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re in Paris. Macarons are obligatory.”

Adam glances from me to the cookies and back again. He must be catching onto my stubbornness because he gets in line without protesting further. “What should I get?” he asks me when he gets to the register.

Years ago, I ingrained the list of the best macaron flavors into my memory, and I rattle it off quickly. “Lemon, pistachio, coffee, and raspberry.”

“Did you get that?” he asks the employee.

I watch enviously as the employee packages Adam’s macarons in a small, pastel pink box.

He raises his eyebrows at me. “Aren’t you getting some?”

I shake my head. Those four macarons cost Adam almost twenty euros. I can’t justify that when my job is at risk.

“Fine,” Adam says, plucking a plastic knife from the counter. I follow him outside to one of the round bistro tables and watch as he opens the box. My stomach rumbles.

His delicate little pastry box is beautiful in its own right, but the cookies are the real showstoppers, each one so flawless they look like sculptures. After we both take turns photographing them, Adam slices each cookie in half, right down the middle. He takes half of the first one before nudging the box over toward me.

“They’re yours,” I say, studying Adam’s expression.

“I’m not eating alone.” Adam holds the bright yellow cookie right in front of his lips and narrows his eyes at me. After I sigh and pick up my half, I see a half-grin peeking out from behind the macaron.

“Ophelia Brooks, I now understand why you love Paris so much,” Adam says coolly after eating his half.

I roll my eyes at him, assuming his comment will turn backhanded, but his hinting smile seems genuine.

“But I’m afraid you've set the bar too high in your first hour of being my tour guide. I don’t know how anything can compete with these.” He reaches over for the green macaron. I follow his lead.

The cookies are even better than I remember.

“I’m sorry to say that there’s not much rock climbing in Paris,” I say. “No skiing either. So I’m setting you up for disappointment.”

“Try me. What else do you have planned for your day?”

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