Page 14 of City of Love

“What, you’re not going to get the rest out?” I say. There’s hardly anything left, but I’m pretty sure he missed a few things; it’s a big purse.

“I’ve seen enough,” he says while he works. I have no idea what that means, but I’m not complaining.

Then, in a movement so fluid a dancer would be jealous, Mr. Grump stands. He gives me my now-full bag before holding his hand out to me. I eye it before letting him pull me up to stand, something he does with ease. When I stumble to my feet, I find myself closer to him than I intended, and I get a good look at those eyes. There are little flecks of brown in the green, and his lashes are as dark as my mascaraed ones. Why do men always have the best eyelashes?

I realize a second too late that I’m staring up at him, and that he’s staring right back. When it hits me, I take a step away. Mr. Grump doesn’t stop me or mention that he’s caught me looking at him. Instead, he holds his hand out again.

“We haven’t been introduced,” he says, his expression unreadable. “What’s your name,chérie?”

It’s silly, but his question feels important somehow—the serious way he’s looking at me feels significant. I put my hand in his again, shaking it. “Lydia,” I say.

“Lydia,” he repeats, looking disconcerted. I can almost imagine that under his breath, he mutters, “Perfect.”

But I must have imagined it, because he just clears his throat and says, “It’s nice to meet you, Lydia. I hope you make it to your destination safely. Are you sure you have the right address?”

I tilt my phone at him, showing the listed address, and after he reads it, he nods, a look of unmistakable relief passing over his face. “Good. Your taxi will be here any second.”

And with that he opens the door for me, all but booting me out of his flat and leaving me standing alone in the hallway. It’s only when I get in the cab that I realize he never told me his name.

Chapter 6

Noel

Mince. That was Lydia. My Lydia. I sent that stress ball to her last year, along with the Rosie the Riveter picture. She was worried about tests and dealing with a bunch of crap from—

Marcus. Something clicks, and I realize Marcus was probably the guy who made her miss her train. I grit my teeth, fighting the sudden urge to hit something. It sounds like the kind of thing he’d say—that no one but him would ever want her.

It’s categorically untrue. Lydia is sweet and fiery. She’s passionate and just. She’ll make some guy very happy someday.

Especially when she looks like that. She was sixteen when we started writing, and I guess in my head I’ve still been picturing a little sixteen-year-old, but…that was no little girl. I push away the image of her in that shirt, the smooth, exposed skin of her delicate shoulder, the dimples at the corners of her full lips. I take that mental picture and delete it from my mind, because I’m not interested in what Lydia looks like.

Another image flashes through my head, this time of her sobbing, all alone outside my flat, and an unfamiliar pang of…something…shoots through me. Empathy? Sympathy?

I frown, pushing that thought away, too. I don’t need or want to think any more about her. Especially when the guys will be here soon. I text my mother, because if Lydia has been wandering around lost, my mother is bound to be worried. I tell her that Lydia is on the way and reassure that I’ll be over later this evening. Then I shove my phone back in my pocket, trying not to let myself worry, either.

After that I pace back and forth for an indeterminate amount of time—something I’m not proud of, but I have a lot on my mind. I don’t need to be worrying that Lydia will get lost again. I don’t need to feel empathy or sympathy or anything else for her. I don’t stress about women. I never have, and I’m not going to start now.

I pace faster, running one hand through my hair. This continues for several minutes more before I’m startled out of my thoughts by a knock at the door. Though it’s less of a knock and more of a heads up, as Luc barges in a second later without waiting for me to answer, his closely cropped reddish-brown hair glistening, his medical scrubs darkened by the rain.

He takes one look at me and says in French, “What’s up with you?”

I blink in surprise before saying, “What do you mean?”

Luc shrugs, tugging his boots off. “You look shell-shocked or something.”

I quickly readjust my facial features before telling him, “No. I’m fine. Where is everyone else?”

“Tom, Gabin, and Paul were the only ones I talked to, but they were passing the word. I assume everyone else is on their way.”

I give one curt nod. “Fine. Help me set up.”

One of Luc’s brows shoots up, and I know what he’s going to say before he says it.

“What do you mean, help you set up?”

I grit my teeth. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, but I want to hear you say it. Go on: I, Noel Marchand, am unprepared for probably the first time in my life.”

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