Don't Tell (Don't 1)

“I can’t. I don’t have time. Look at this.” I covered my eyes with my palms.

She tugged on my arm. “The notecards will be here when we get back. You need some fresh air. And preferably a change of clothes that isn’t pajamas or yoga pants.” She looked over my wardrobe disapprovingly.

“Again. I don’t have time for real clothes. I’m in the middle of the most critical paper of my life.”

I stumbled to my feet and stepped over the circle of index cards.

“I know.

I know. But caffeine will put some of that in perspective.” She wrapped an arm around my shoulder and shuttled me to my room where I shrugged off the pjs and changed into a cute mini skirt.

I pulled the pencil from the bun and let my hair fall around my shoulders.

I met Brooklyn at the door. “Better?”

“God, yes. You look like a human girl,” she teased.

I rolled my eyes. “One quick coffee. That’s it.”

“Got it.”

I had moved to Galona almost a year ago. The country was beautiful. An island the size of Connecticut floated off the western coast of France and just to the north of Spain. It was quintessential Europe. The food was amazing. The art. The music. The fashion. And my God, the wine was amazing. Only, I didn’t get to see much of it. I spent most of my time in the library at Freychon’s Literary Conservatory.

Brooklyn, on the other hand, had dropped out of the program.

We sat outside under the shade of a café umbrella and sipped espressos.

“How’s the job hunt going?” I prodded.

She shrugged. “I don’t think my skill set converts here.”

“You could wait tables if you had to. Anyone can do that.”

Her cup clinked against the saucer. “I’d rather not. I’m looking for something exciting. Something more challenging then taking cappuccino orders.”

We had discussed this a few times. At some point, she was going to run out of money. “If you take a part-time job you might hear about another job. You could try it.”

The sun that had been blaring, was blocked. I looked up to see a man in a suit standing inches from our table.

“Hi.” Brooklyn and I smiled. I waited for him to continue his walk, but he pulled his sunglasses to the brim of his nose and pushed them firmly in place again.

He nodded. “Are you two here alone?” he spoke with a clipped French accent.

“Yes.” Brooklyn grinned.

I kicked her under the table.

“I have an invitation for you.”

“What sort of invitation?” I asked.

We were alone on the sidewalk. He spoke cautiously.

“It is an exclusive invitation.”

Brooklyn looked at me. I had no idea what that look meant. Did she understand his secret code?

“Please tell me it’s what I think it is.” She looked up at the well-dressed man.