Page 51 of Angel Eyes

I grinned. While I typically adhered to a strict no-social-media rule whenever I was working, I was willing to make an exception for Grace. I sorely missed her. Between her witty banter and lighthearted nature, she always made my life at the firm significantly more tolerable.

I clicked on the notification and the picture I posted of myself thirty minutes ago filled the screen. I was smiling behind my mug of coffee, the fluorescent yellow wall of the student center framing my face and the word CAFÉ hovering above my head in black vinyl letters. I’d captioned the photo: Shh … writing in progress.

I scrolled down to Grace’s comment.

Look at you! So joyful. P.S. Did you get my email?? Please send more chapters of your novella! I’m going through withdrawal. Miss you! Xoxo

I typed out a quick reply, promising to send something soon. I’d meant to send her new chapters before now, but time had become a precious commodity as of late. My plate was pretty full between classes and working as Benoit’s assistant, to say nothing of the fact that I now had to rewrite my magazine submission.

I stared down at the draft covered in red ink.

As daunting as Benoit’s feedback was, he was right. I was trying too hard. Instead of writing something genuine, I’d tried to produce a piece that was serious and intellectual, assuming that was what it would take to get noticed. But what if I just wrote from the heart? Instead of crafting a story mired in detail about the rejuvenation of art during the Renaissance, what if I put a spin on it and presented it through a unique lens?

I rolled my neck, pulled the pencil from my hair, and flipped to a fresh page in my notebook.

Modern-day woman time travels to Florence during the height of the Renaissance, I jotted down. Oh, and of course, I would have to include a romance subplot.

My lips quirked.

If Benoit wanted authentic, I would give him authentic.

“Excuse me, but would you mind if I joined you?”

I glanced up to find a man in a navy chalk-stripe suit towering over me, his gray eyes so devoid of color they were almost translucent. A lock of pale blond hair fell over his brow, and he smoothed it back, his lips curving beneath a pair of sharp cheekbones.

Gripping a manila folder in one hand, he lifted a cup of espresso with the other. “Sorry to impose. All the other tables are occupied.”

I looked around. Every seat was taken except for a couch near the pool table, though, it was safe to assume a man dressed in a suit as impeccable as his wouldn’t want to attempt drinking coffee on a lumpy cushion.

“Um, sure.” I gestured to the seat opposite mine.

He lowered himself into it, setting down his cup to adjust a pair of silver cufflinks emblazoned with the initials C.A.

I examined him. Tailored suit, possibly Italian linen. Nice watch too. Cartier, maybe? Interesting. What was a guy like him doing here with a bunch of students in T-shirts and grungy jeans?

“Thank you for sharing your table.” He placed a hand on his chest, bowing his head like some Regency-era gentleman. “You’re too kind.”

I narrowed my eyes. “And you’re far too charming.”

“What’s wrong with being charming?”

I shrugged. “You know what they say. The devil is a charming man.”

His eyes fell wide, flickering with surprise and a hint of amusement.

“Well, now I see what all the fuss is about,” he murmured, as if to himself. “Beautiful and perceptive.” He extended a hand to me. “Lucien Alarie, although my intimates call me Cristian.”

“Juliet Chandler.” I offered him my hand, catching the faint scent of warm tobacco and woodsmoke lingering against his skin. “Are you a student?”

He drew a finger around the rim of his espresso cup. “Not presently.”

“Then why are you in the student center?”

“Visiting.”

“Visiting,” I repeated.

“Yes, darling, that’s what I said.” He leaned in closer, wrapping me in his smoky scent. “May I let you in on a secret?”

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