I stared at him. “What?” He was not going to buy an overpriced, touristy flower. No. No way. Ridiculous! Unbelievable!
Mike handed me a red rose.
I buried my nose in it, and then frowned at him as the man walked away. “You know they marked this up like five-hundred percent.”
“Do you like it?”
I inhaled the strong, heady perfume, deep and rich and velvet. “Maybe.”
“Isn’t Ecuador famous for roses? Or is that bananas?”
I laughed. “Both.” We unpacked the picnic we’d brought: a baguette, a wheel of Camembert, slices of ham and tiny, dark grapes. “They have these giant rose farms, and they’re just stunning—full and deep and perfect. They’re some of the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen. And I’m just a walking cliché—roses are my favorite.” I tore off a chunk of bread and unwrapped the cheese. “But they breed them for beauty, not fragrance, and so they have almost no scent. And I always sort of thought a rose without a scent was like a person without a soul.”
He stopped assembling his sandwich and grinned widely. “Look at you. Yeats two-point-oh.”
I laughed. “What can I say. If I don’t find Ivernis, I can always write greeting cards.”
Afterward, we dusted off the crumbs and took pictures of each other in front of the Tower. A girl, not much older than Anna, watched with a beleaguered expression as we took selfies and finally walked over, determination in her step and resignation in her voice. “Want me to take that for you?”
Despite her self-sacrificial tone, she took six pictures in quick succession. When she handed the camera back and strode away, she only made it twenty yards before visibly sighing and walking over to another hopeless couple.
So then we spent the next twenty minutes watching her as her instinct to help overpowered her desire to ignore everyone. “I always daydreamed about being a spy,” I admitted when she finally headed out of view. “Probably stemmed from my nosiness.”
He rolled over onto his stomach. “Not a bad cover, being an archaeologist. Good reason to travel and bug people.”
I grinned and waved my flower in his face. “It’s actually a classic. Archaeologists have been spying since the first world war.”
“What? No way.”
I relaxed back on my elbows, admiring the drifting clouds. “My favorite story is about this Egyptologist who passed messages in hieroglyphs, and just told the occupiers that it was an inscription he needed help translating.” I raised my brows. “See? We are the most badass profession.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’d make an awful spy.”
“You don’t think I’d make an awesome femme fatale?” I fluttered my lashes at him.
I’d completely been kidding, but his gaze went dark and he reached out to brush my hair behind my ear. My heart fluttered. Mike made me feel like I was as stunning and amazing as any woman that graced the silver screen.
Then a crew of loud American boys tripped over their own feet, and we pulled apart as they milled before us and pushed one of their members forward. He cleared his throat and performed the ubiquitous chin nod at Mike. “Hey. Are you Michael O’Connor?”
I’d been with my mother a handful of times when she’d been recognized. She’d always slipped out the scornful half smile, the drops of disdain. If they offered a hand she raised her brows, if they smiled she frowned.
Mike grinned. “Yeah, that’s me. What are you guys doing here?”
They were study abroad students at Sciences Po, and they clamored for Mike’s attention. A couple of them checked me out until Mike blatantly wrapped his arm around me. And then, so easily I barely noticed it was happening, he extricated us from the group, leaving them with shining eyes and puffed up chests.
“You’re good at that.”
“Ryan and I used to make bets about how fast we could get out.” He let out a laugh. “You should see Keith. If he gets bored he walks away from people mid-sentence. Abe pretends his mom’s calling.”
“Aw, that’s a cute one.”
“Yeah, that’s why he does it. Subtle publicity work when he’s hemmed in by old ladies. I don’t think he pulls that one on guys.” He quirked a brow. “Speaking of mothers. I have some
ideas for how we should spend the rest of the day.”
“Like eating bonbons and checking out the Louvre and the gadgetty, steampunky museum?”
For one hopeful moment, interest distracted him, and then he leveled a deliberate look at me. “Like I looked up your mother.”