Page 39 of Kiss Me, Mr. Bridge

Lucia

I’m standing before the Winged Victory of Samothrace, and everything feels wrong; the magnificent marble statue has failed to inspire me as I expected.

Even here at The Louvre—it should feel magical—it’s the Louvre, for god’s sake. Yet all I can think about are the phone calls I’ve ignored from Amelia these past few days.

But I’m not ready to be screamed at again for fucking her father.

I know she wants me to explain myself. She said as much in a text message. Asking how long it had been going on for. But I’m not ready to talk to anyone about Ronan, especially his daughter.

My back stiffens at the thought.

I did what she asked. I stepped aside for her. As I do for everyone. My mother. Especially my father.

And now I’ve lost the one person who looked at me like he really wanted me.

Of course, now I know he didn’t. He probably wanted the time we agreed to, but not any longer, and I should be thankful that it ended so quickly. Imagine how my heart would feel after another two weeks if it’s feeling like it is now.

I shove my backpack on my opposite shoulder as I turn a corner.

My eyes drift to a nearby Roman sculpture, and for a moment, all I see is Ronan’s face carved from stone.

I blink, and it’s gone.

God, I want him.

I should hate him.

I can’t. He was always there, and he gave me this impossible dream. I felt looked after. And when his mouth was on my neck, before he even kissed me, I knew he wanted more.

Not enough, though.

The universe has a sick sense of humor.

The crowds of tourists press in around me, their enthusiastic chatter only amplifying my loneliness. This grand adventure around Europe was supposed to be liberating. Yet, I feel more lost than ever.

“I need coffee,” I mutter to myself. My feet are already going to the exit.

Outside, the spring air is crisp as I make my way back toward the Seine and the same coffee shop where I ate breakfast.

I settle at a café table, order a coffee and spread out my well-worn map, searching for the closest tourist destination to get to from here.

I thank the waiter when he brings me a hot coffee, and then I get back to tracing possible routes with my finger, trying to convince myself that the next museum—the next city, or perhapsthe next country—will somehow fill this hollow feeling in my chest.

“The Musée d’Orsay is overrated.” A deep voice comes from my left and my heart stops.

I glance through my lashes at the voice.

And there he is–Ronan Bridge. And he looks like he stepped out of a magazine in his tailored charcoal coat, matching colored pants and a crisp white shirt with no tie and the top two buttons undone.

God, he looks so good.

My mouth falls open.

“May I join you?”

I swallow and nod lightly, unable to speak for a while as I watch him sit across from me like this is perfectly normal. And not like we are in Paris.

“How did you find out I was here?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

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