Page 43 of Blue Eyes & Paris Vibes

And its impressiveness overshadows any apprehension I had about this place. It's a lot less scary than I imagined it would be. No, all I can think of is how impressive this church is.

Before I know it, I'm back outside, still awestruck by the architecture, the details and the way the setting sun shone through the glass windows. I take a deep breath. The air is nice and cool, the clear blue sky slowly starting to turn orange, heavy shadows from the buildings and trees falling on the probably century-old cobblestone.

My phone starts buzzing, and I answer it blindly, knowing exactly who it is.

"The mission’s not successful so far," I tell Max and start walking. The walk from hell is still fresh in my mind, but knowing I’d be back here, I trained for this, determined to walk it without starting to suffer halfway through. I’ve brought solid, comfortable shoes, packed my bag lightly and my trusty sunglasses are on my nose. I feel unstoppable.

Just like last year. If I follow the Seine, I'm going to arrive at my hotel sooner or later, and now I know to keep to the shore if I don’t want to make detours through gardens or Place de la Concorde.

"You know, I've been keeping an eye on celebrity news, jet trackers and the like," Max explains, but there's something in his voice that makes my heart sink. “And since it’s fashion week in Paris I spent hours combing through info on the shows to see which models they booked.”

“And?” I ask, already knowing the answer thanks to the disappointed undertone in his voice.

"Reed hasn't been booked for any shows that I found."

"I told you it was useless," I say dejectedly, walking towards the bridge that will bring me to the right shore.

"You only just arrived," he scolds me. “Give it a chance. You have to believe in it to make the universe do its thing.”

“Reed is not Tinkerbell,” I point out and shake my head, even though he can't see it.

"You still have a week to find him, and I do expect you to put your all into it."

"There's not exactly much I can do," I point out and roll my eyes. "I can't exactly reenact our whole itinerary from last year."

"Why not?" he wonders, and I fight the urge to hit my palm against my forehead.

"Well, for one, the Louvre had no more tickets available for my slot," I explain, dodging a biker at the last moment before he crashes into me, letting out a surprised squeak before I continue. "And really, Max, it's just unrealistic. Who says he even remembers me, let alone our whole itinerary? And don't hit me with 'only one way to find out.'"

I know it was on the tip of his tongue but thankfully, he swallows the words. I’ve heard them enough over the past year.

"And I'm definitely not going to waste my whole vacation here trying to find someone who might not even be in the same country." Taking a deep breath I square my shoulders. "I'm going to have a marvelous time here. And maybe I'll run into him, but most likely, I won't. This will be a vacation to remember either way."

"Atta girl," he says, sounding kind of proud. "Then have fun. Listen, can you bring me some cheese back here?"

"Send me a list and I’ll see what I can do. I'll call you if anything happens," I assure him before cutting the call and putting away my phone securely in the inner pocket of my jacket.

The walk back to the hotel is still long, still grueling, but I find myself enjoying it a lot more than last year when I didn’t know what I was getting into. Now I’m not distracted by aching feet and can focus on my surroundings and all the facets I can see of the city.

There are people picnicking along the shore, right by the river, or perched on the barricade lining the street, letting the last rays of sun soak into their skin. A bit further down, I head toward the Seine, choosing to walk along the water, past a bridge so intricate it almost feels illegal to see it out here in the open.

Walking closer, my eyes wander over the carvings and statues, ornate, weathered, impossibly detailed. They never get old. I could stand here a whole afternoon and still find something new the next time I look.

A bit further down the river, I spot a boat pulsing with muffled bass, a small line of what I assume to be university students ready to party already forming in front of it.

Other boats drift along the shore as I continue my walk, their owners lounging on deck chairs, drinks in hand, watching as the sun completely disappears behind buildings, turning the whole sky into a dark orange and blue, highlighted with the golden glow of street lanterns.

The closer I get to the Eiffel Tower, the more careful I have to be not to walk into someone’s photo.

Girls in stunning dresses pose along the shore, their hair and makeup flawless, while a friend, or maybe a hired photographer by the looks of it, crouches behind a professional camera, doing their best to capture that perfect moment of them twirling in their dresses with the Eiffel Tower in the background.

By the time I arrive where I want to go, my feet are still feeling okay—no aches, no blisters, only a little discomfort that I can easily ignore.

But all is forgotten, because now I’mhere. The very same spot we'd sat in that first evening.Or rather, my second evening.

I freeze, just staring at the stone edge for a moment.

Fuck, this brings back memories. Ones that used to feel warm, but now come edged with a faint gray of anxiety.

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