Page 85 of City of Love

She sighs, looking down at her hands as she fidgets with my comforter. “I sort of have a thing for him.”

I do my best not to let my smile show. “I know you do.”

She grimaces, looking up at me. “I’m not very subtle.” She sighs again. “It happened when you were in France, but I don’t really want to talk about details. Just…suffice it to say that it did not go well. And now we sort of aren’t speaking. Not, like,not speakingnot speaking,” she clarifies. “More just that everything is awkward, so we’ve been avoiding each other.” She swallows. “And it sort of sucks.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say, leaning forward and hugging her. Then, trying to inject lightness into my voice, I say, “Well, do we hate him, or are we hopeful about the future?”

“Ha,” she says as I parrot her own words back to her. “We are mortified and would love to forget about the entire incident.”

I nod, sighing. “Should we eat ice cream and watch sad movies tonight? It sounds like we both could use it.”

Jade nods too, and within minutes we’ve pulled upA Walk to Remember—my go-to movie for when I just need to cry. Jade is actually the one to suggest it, which is strange, because she doesn’t like sad movies, but she clearly has some emotions she needs to let out, too.

We’re about hallway through the movie when there’s an interruption.

“Lydia!” Ian’s says, his voice muffled as he calls through the door.

I frown, hitting pause. He sounds supremely annoyed.

“What?” I say, getting up and opening the door. I gesture at him. “And I could use a little less of the attitude.”

Ian’s eyes jump from me to Jade. Just as soon as he’s looked at her, though, he looks back to me. Swallowing, he seems to regain his composure.

“There’s a Frenchman downstairs—”

“What?” Jade and I both shriek at the same time.

“Yes, and he won’t leave.”

My eyes widen as my mind whirls with a million questions—how and when and why and is this even real. But within a matter of seconds, my brain settles on the most important question right now: Do I want to see him?

Yes. The answer to that question will always be yes. I don’t know about the answers to more complex questions, but this one I can handle.

I push past Ian, rushing down the hall. Then something occurs to me, and I stop at the top of the stairs. “Wait.MyFrenchman?” I say. I feel like I need to clarify, because that would be a doozy of a letdown.

Ian rolls his eyes. “I wouldn’t call himyourFrenchman—”

“Yes,herFrenchman.” Noel’s voice—Noel Marchand’s voice—rings through the house, firm and loud and authoritative. My heart catches, my breath hitching in my throat. Suddenly adrenaline is rushing through my veins.

“You mean he’sbeenhere?” I say over my shoulder to Ian. “How long have you been making him wait?” I turn around with my hands on my hips, waiting for Ian’s answer.

He shrugs, looking not at all repentant. “Just a few minutes.”

I glare at him.

“Like, fifteen minutes,” he admits.

“Twenty,” Noel calls from downstairs.

“Ian!” I throw my hands up in the air and hurry down the stairs. I am definitely dressed in ratty sweats and my Louvre t-shirt, which I have embarrassingly been wearing for the last two days, but I don’t even care.

And when I reach the bottom of the stairs, I stop thinking about my clothes at all, because Noel steps into view.

His voice when he spoke was as collected as always, but the expression on his face tells a different story. He’s looking at me nervously, a little crease between his brows, and his posture is more tentative than usual.

But I launch myself at him anyway, throwing my arms around his neck before I even think about it, and that nervous expression morphs into one of surprise.

He’shere. In my house—

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