Page 53 of City of Love

“Horribly,” she agrees as we resume walking. “Now. Tell me about these guys you work with. How did they get dragged into this?”

“Most of them were homeless,” I say. “Not Luc; I’ve known him since we were kids. But the rest of the guys I met through the shelter and the food bank. Some of them were in the system but had run away; others had always been on the streets.”

Lydia nods. “I’ve thought about being a social worker,” she says, looking over at me. “I made a promise to myself that when I came home from France, I would know what I wanted to study. Social work is one of the things I’m considering. To help kids in bad situations like that.” She shrugs.

“You’d be good at that. I don’t know if you’d like it, though,” I say, hoping this doesn’t offend her. “It could get pretty heavy, and you could end up seeing some pretty rough situations.”

“That’s my concern, actually,” she says heavily. “I don’t know how it would affect me emotionally.” She pauses and then gives a snort of laughter. “I mean, I was going crazy worrying about you—a grown man with the ability to protect yourself. I’m not sure how I would handle having stewardship over children in situations they couldn’t control.”

“But it could also be very rewarding.”

“Yeah,” she says, biting her lower lip and thinking hard. “I don’t know. I think it might be too much for me, you know?”

I drag my gaze away from her perfect lips and fix it in front of me instead. “Well, you don’t have to decide right this second.”

“Yeah,” she says again, shrugging. “I’ll figure it out.”

We walk the rest of the way home in a surprisingly comfortable silence. When we get back to the flat, Lydia tells me goodnight and goes to bed, and I’m left once again with my thoughts.

Chapter 17

Lydia

When I wake up on Saturday morning, I don’t immediately leave my room. Instead I sit in bed and process for a bit. The light streaming through the window is warm and peaceful, and I relish the feeling of not having anywhere I have to be or anything I have to do.

You know, since I’ve already given Noel anextensivepiece of my mind.

I shake my head, snorting.Nonprofit organization—yeah, right. That was a stretch. And yet, strangely, I’m not surprised. Or rather, it doesn’t shock me that Noel has been pickpocketing. He gives off a bit of a vibe—that sort of dark, sexy feel.

Whatisa surprise is that I don’t feel nearly as angry with him anymore. I guess getting it all out last night helped calm me down.

I frown as I think about our conversation, specifically the parts about social work. Noel’s thoughts made sense, and pickpocketing ring aside, I trust his judgment on most things. More than that, though, everything he said echoed my own feelings.

Could it be rewarding? Yes. But would I run myself emotionally ragged? Probably.

With a sigh, I pull out the list I made a few days ago. It’s a bit crinkled now, but that’s okay. I crosssocial workeroff before putting the list and pen on the bedside table next to the lamp.

I’m just going to the closet to find clothes when there’s a knock on the bedroom door.

“Lydia,” comes Noel’s voice.

I consider staying silent just to let him sweat, but I’m not really that petty, so I answer the door.

“Yeah?” I say when I see him. He’s wearing a forest green v-neck that stretches perfectly over his chest and biceps, and when I find his eyes, I see the shirt makes them look greener than usual.

Great. Because that’s just what I need today: Noel looking even better than usual.

“Get dressed,” Noel says, eyeing my pajamas. “Are those—men’s underwear?”

I look down at my boxers, white with little red hearts all over. “Yes,” I say, frowning at him. “Don’t judge me.”

He just hums noncommittally, his gaze trailing up my body and back to my eyes. I could swear there’s heat in the look he gives me, but he just turns and heads back to his room, calling over his shoulder, “We’re going somewhere. Dress to go outside.”

And then he’s gone, his bedroom door closing behind him.

So I guess we haven’t made any progress with the whole not-bossing-people-around thing. Still, I do as he says, because I’m anxious to see more of Paris. The sun is bright, and it looks warm out, so I put on my denim cutoffs and a pink tank top that has a picture of a unicorn and writing that says “I Believe.” I grab my crossbody purse and some sandals, throwing my hair in a messy bun on top of my head and then leaving the room.

When I go out to the living room, I’m surprised to see Noel standing by the front door with a large wicker picnic basket.

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