girls. There’s something odd about him, about his presence, but I can’t put my finger on it. “Do they make you learn about the art?”
“They probably don’t think I could understand it, and the truth is, I’m about that clueless. But I read the little signs when the rooms are empty.”
I sigh. “That sounds so lovely, to be there when it’s empty.”
“It’s kind of unnerving, actually.”
“Is it?” Without meaning to, I eye his broad shoulders and muscular arms. He doesn’t seem like someone who’s afraid of anything, especially empty rooms.
He makes a face. “You can’t tell anyone, but I’ve always been freaked out by ghosts and shit like that. They say there are multiple ghosts in the Louvre.”
“Have you seen any?”
“No, but I’m glad I don’t work the mummy wing,” he says fervently, and I laugh.
A plump woman bustles out of the kitchen carrying two plates. She sets them in front of us with a quick burst of French. In another moment she returns with silverware.
I blink. “Do they only serve one thing?”
He laughs without a sound. “No, but the look on your face is perfect. I usually come here for lunch, and I texted for her to make two crepes instead of one.”
I stick out my tongue. “I thought maybe it was an authentic French thing.”
“No, even native Parisians like choices.” He cuts the corner of his crepe and takes a bite. His eyes close in something like rapture, and there’s a strange tightening in my body.
My stomach growls. “I guess I was hungry.”
“Blueberry,” he says, taking another mouthful. I wish I could be as unselfconscious as him. Or maybe he’s too hungry to care. How long is a shift at the museum? I don’t know, but I’ve never had to work, not even part-time jobs over the summer.
I cut a piece with my fork and take a bite. I’ve had crepes before, of course. They’re everywhere here in Paris—at the airport, in little stands scattered around the Eiffel Tower. I’ve even eaten one at a Michelin-starred restaurant, but it didn’t compare to the simple perfection of this one. The crepe is a perfect combination of soft and crisp. The blueberries are fresh. The cream makes my own eyes roll back. “Oh my God,” I moan. “You have this every day?”
When I open my eyes again, he’s staring at me intently.
I force myself to swallow.
“So, Holly. What’s a girl like you doing out on your own?”
“A girl like me?”
“Pretty. And young.”
A flush suffuses my cheeks. “My family’s around.”
One eyebrow rises as if to say, I don’t see them anywhere.
“My sister and parents went to see the gardens. They don’t like to linger.”
“And you do?”
“That’s all I like to do, really. Take things slow. I’m too slow for them.”
“Or they don’t stop and appreciate what they have.”
Defensiveness grows in me even though I’ve thought the same things about them. “They’re these world travelers, okay? Other people dream of going places, but they just pack a bag and go do it. That’s something to be admired.”
He shrugs, looking unimpressed. “It’s easy to leave places. You never have to clean up after yourself, never have to see people live and then die, never have to grieve because you’re already gone. Believe me, I know the appeal.”
“You don’t know them.”
He leans forward, green eyes intense. “Maybe not, but I know you. I know the way you watched people like you weren’t one of them. Saw the way you wanted to belong.”
Embarrassment clenches my chest. “Is that why you asked me out? Pity?”
“Pity.” A sharp laugh. “A girl with clothes that cost as much as my rent? No, sweetheart. I don’t pity you. And I asked you out because I want to kiss you.”
A new awareness straightens my spine. “You do?”
He waves his hand. “Not here.”
I glance around as if there’s going to be some kind of kissing booth with a sign. I’ve never been kissed by a boy. Whenever we go to parties together, London ends up in one of the bedrooms upstairs with a boy. I’m usually on the back porch reading a book on my phone. “Where, then?”
“Come out with me tonight?”
“What? I can’t.”
He shrugs. “Maybe you won’t, but a smart girl like you? I bet you can.”
I narrow my eyes. “Where are we gonna go?”
“Does it matter?” he counters.
And he’s right. It doesn’t matter. Because if I meet him, he’s going to kiss me. With his pretty green eyes and his harsh mouth, his leather jacket and his work shirt.
My