Page 15 of Blue Eyes & Paris Vibes

“So glad I went early,” she whispers as I lead her past the queue and through the courtyard, out to a busy street, where a towering church stands across from us.

“That church is Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois,” I tell her, pointing at it, proud that I remember the name. “It was built in the thirteenth century and used to be the main church for the royal palace before Notre-Dame.”

The church is pretty in its own right. Not quite as elegant as Notre-Dame in my opinion, but it can absolutely hold a candle to it.

The outside is full of tall pointed arches and detailed stonework, a little less grand than Notre-Dame but just as beautiful in its own way. Its tower stands proudly above the street, and the mix of old Gothic shapes and soft colors makes it feel like a quiet, forgotten cousin of the more famous cathedral.

“Thirteenth century,” she whispers, eyes wide with amazement. “That’s so wild.”

“Would you like to get a closer look?”

“Maybe later.” She shakes her head. “I wasn’t kidding about starving.”

“Good news then,” I say with a grin, nodding toward a restaurant right by the square in front of the church. “That’s the place I was talking about.”

We head inside, and I pull out a chair for her, the way I’ve done it for my sister Zoey since I was a child after seeing it in a movie once.

The restaurant feels timeless: wooden floors, heavy dark tables, a softly glowing bar with bottles lined up behind it, and pale curtains letting in just the right amount of light, making it feel like we’ve travelled back in time.

“This feels so homey,” she whispers, looking around the room to take it all in. “If my home were sixty years old. How did you find this place?” she asks, eyes narrowing curiously, glancing over the menu I handed her.

“One of my… coworkers brought me here,” I say quickly, making it up on the spot. Obviously, my job is not exactly a secret, but even though it’s embarrassing to admit, I love that she doesn’t know who I am. I just couldn’t bring myself to tell her my whole name this morning, afraid she’d somehow find out who I am. If she did, would she be just as snarky?

I find once people know who I am, and who my brothers are, they become too scared to voice their real thoughts. When she snapped at me yesterday in the lobby, that’s the first time in what must be years that someone outside my siblings dared to speak up when I acted like a dick.

I don’t want her to become just another ‘yes’ sayer. So, selfishly, I just can’t bring myself to be completely honest.

“We finished a sho-… er, project and he said this bar was perfect for celebrating.”

She hums, not quite happy with that answer. “What kind of project was it?”

“Erm…” I utter, trying to come up with a nice description for ‘I was the final model he photographed for his campaign’ when a waiter appears by our table.

I order in English. I catch a small twitch on his face, maybe surprise, but more likely a bit of judgment. She notices it too, biting her lip to keep from grinning. And then she speaks up once he turns to her, trying her best in French.

Her words are a little shaky, her pronunciation slipping on some words, but she gives it a real shot. The waiter smiles, and this one seems genuine, like he appreciates the effort. Or maybe he just finds it charming. Either way, the mood shifts and I have to say, I found it charming as hell.

“You speak French?” I lean in, resting my elbow on the table and propping my chin on my hand. “I’m impressed.”

“I don’t want to brag,” she says, raising one finger, “but I know exactly five sentences that will help me in everyday life. My name is Abby. One water, or coffee, please. Good evening. Excuse me. I don’t speak French. And thanks to a little green owl: I don’t like snails.”

“Well, that’s certainly the essentials,” I say with a chuckle, watching her fidget with the hem of the tablecloth. While I know some basics, I don’t really like to speak it. My tongue struggles with the pronunciation and some days I prefer to just stick to English and keep my dignity, instead of doing the whole ‘I speak in French that the natives find so bad they switch to English’ game.

“It’s all I need,” she points out, giggling. “My brother said most people here speak or at least understand English, but they appreciate it if tourists at least try. I figured it was better than getting my food spit in, because when you ordered, he certainly looked like he was contemplating it.”

When the waiter returns with our drinks, I press out a thankful ‘merci,’ but it only earns me a glare from him.

“A solid reason,” I point out once he’s gone again, lifting my glass to the middle of the table.

“What are we drinking to?” she asks, lifting hers as well.

“To new beginnings?”

She clinks her glass gently against mine. “To new beginnings.” She takes a sip of her cocktail and grimaces, half amused, half unsure. “Wow. That tastes like coconut, a whole lot of alcohol and bad ideas.”

I lean back, letting the moment breathe, before I ask what’s been weighing on me since I joined her for breakfast this morning.

“So… what brings a pretty woman like you to the city of love all alone?”

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