Page 26 of City of Love

But I shake my head. I’m not having this conversation with him, especially now that I’ve actuallyseenLydia. Only an idiot would try to claim she’s unattractive, and I’m not going to lie to him.

“I didn’t call to talk about Lydia,” I say, redirecting the conversation.

“Fine, but we aren’t done discussing this,” he says cheerfully.

“I’m sure,” I mutter. “Any updates?”

“None,” he says, more serious now. “Everyone has pretty much dispersed like you asked.”

“And Laurent?” I say. “No word from him?”

“He doesn’t seem to have caught wind of the situation,” Luc confirms. “So he’s still set to fence the watch for us, still has that buyer lined up.”

I release a breath. “Good. I’m going to find a replacement watch this morning. I’ll get it to the Saints when we meet. Where is that happening, by the way?”

“Charles Baudelaire,” Luc says after a second’s hesitation.

“Montparnasse,” I say, understanding his worry. We use the cemeteries of Paris as neutral meeting grounds. It’s a practice I adopted simply because other gangs had already been doing it for much longer than I’d been operating. But even though cemeteries are considered neutral territory, Montparnasse is still in the fourteenth arrondissement—much farther south than we operate, and definitely in the Saint’s hunting grounds, though it is close enough to my parents’ flat that we can walk. I’ve been to Baudelaire’s grave, too, so at least we’ll be able to find it.

“That all right?” Luc says, still sounding hesitant.

“It will be fine,” I say. “You’ll come with me, maybe one or two others. We’ll be fine.” And we will; we’ll get in, do our business, and get out. I’m not so naive as to ignore that this conflict is our fault, but I also know the Saints like the peace we’ve both kept.

“If you’re sure.”

“I am. It’s—”

But I break off, because at that moment Lydia walks into the room, rubbing her eyes and looking around with a mixture of confusion and curiosity.

“Oh,” she says when her gaze lands on me. “There you are.” She glances around some more, frowning. “Where is everyone?”

I cover the receiver of the phone and speak quietly. “My mother is meeting with your French teacher—”

“Why is she meeting with Mademoiselle Hilliard?” she says, tilting her head a little.

“Planning a class outing, I think,” I say. “And my father is on a business trip.”

“Is that her?” Luc says on the other end of the phone, and I can tell he’s grinning.

I grit my teeth. “Yes,” I say.

“Put her on. Let me talk—”

“Absolutely not,” I say flatly. I hang up before he can make any other requests. Then I look back to Lydia, my gaze trailing over her flannel pajamas. “I like the llamas,” I say, smiling a little.

“Oh,” she says, a faint blush rising to her cheeks as she looks down. “I know they’re sort of silly.”

I shake my head. “They’re…cute.” The word feels experimental on my tongue; I don’t usually describe things that way, but it fits here.

Lydia scratches her head, further mussing her hair, and in this state she somehow exudes the same sort of sweetness and innocence that I would expect from someone much younger. Something in me softens as an odd pang of protectiveness tugs at my chest—a desire to see her fed and clothed and safe and happy. I rub the back of my neck, trying to figure out where this instinct is coming from, before I realize that it’s because I worry about having her so close to my less-than-legal endeavors.

“Did you sleep well?” I say, because I should saysomethingrather than sit here and stare at her.

She nods, and the blush in her cheeks intensifies. “I’m sorry; I really didn’t mean to fall asleep there. I guess I was just so tired—”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, waving her apology away. “You needed sleep.” I clear my throat. “I know yesterday was rough.”

She shrugs but doesn’t comment. Instead she just says, “Can I go shower? I feel gross.”

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