One Summer in Paris

She saw him right away, seated at a small table, shaded by a vine. He was reading. Not his phone like everyone around him, but a book. He sat with his head bent, engrossed, lost in the words. He gave his whole self to everything he did. There were no half measures where Philippe was concerned. His inky black hair showed not a fleck of gray. His skin was bronzed from the sun. His clothes were casual, yet effortlessly stylish.

It had been years since she’d last seen him but seeing him lost in a book made it seem like yesterday.

Philippe had always had a book under his arm, the pages marked, corners turned in. They’d argued about whether it was right to defile books. He’d believed that a book should live a life, show signs of age and use. Battered was good because it meant someone had read and read. Best of all were notes, above the text and in the margins. He’d added passages, lines, words—

She’d lain next to him on the grass, watching as he scribbled.

Are you rewriting Shakespeare?

He’d grinned. Just the parts he got wrong.

The memory was so vivid that she caught her breath and he glanced up even though he couldn’t possibly have heard her.

His gaze held hers and for a moment there was a throb of tension in the air. Then he put the book down and uncoiled himself.

He was taller than David. Not as broad. More athletic. Stop it, Grace. Stop making comparisons.

David had pushed her out of his life, and it was time she pushed him out of her head.

She was pondering whether to shake hands or kiss him when Philippe pulled her in for a tight hug, removing the burden of decision-making.

It made her think of those first heady days when they’d gone everywhere together.

She’d been staying with his family and the plan had been for her to spend time with his sister, but she’d broken her leg and so the job of entertaining their American guest had fallen to Philippe. She’d heard raised voices one evening, as he’d protested.

She’s my sister’s friend. What am I supposed to do with her?

In the end they’d found plenty to do. The connection had surprised both of them.

And here they were, face-to-face again. Something she’d never thought would happen.

It felt like a first date.

He cupped her face in his hands, kept his eyes on hers in a way that made her insides squirm. “I spent months planning what I would say to you if I ever saw you again.”

Grace swallowed. Guilt swamped her. “Are you going to yell at me?”

“I’m not the yelling type, particularly over something that happened almost thirty years ago.” He smiled and ran his thumb along her jaw. “It’s good to see you, Grace.”

He spoke in French. He’d always insisted on it. You’re here to learn. How will you learn if we speak English?

“Thirty years is a long time.”

“You haven’t changed at all. You’re still beautiful.” He used charm like a blowtorch, melting resistance.

It made her smile, but there was also a feeling of relief that he didn’t seem to hold any grudges for the way she’d ended things.

“You’re still a charmer.”

“And much good that did me.” He pulled out the chair for her. “I hope you’re hungry because the food here is the best in Paris.”

“Your opinion?”

“Perhaps.” He flashed her a smile. “But when it comes to food, my opinion is the only one that counts.”

Grace picked up the menu but he reached out and touched her arm.

“Can I order? I’m not being sexist and controlling. It’s more that I want you to taste the best things on the menu. This place is an experience you shouldn’t miss.”