I sigh. “Okay, follow me.” I take her hand and weave through the crowd. We head toward the front door and step outside to see the garden crowded with guests. Georgia and Arthur are sitting on the edge of the fountain, bodies entwined and lips locked. God, do they ever give it a break?
“Back in,” I say, and lead her up the winding front staircase, down the hallway past the library, and up the second set of stairs.
“Are we going to your room?” she asks.
“No. Better,” I say, and passing my door, climb a few more steps and push open the trapdoor to the roof. It’s pitch dark. I breathe a sigh of relief—no one else has had this idea—and I help her step out onto the dark roof before switching on the fairy lights.
“Oh, Jules!” she breathes, and raises her hands to her mouth, gazing around in wonder. Paris lies before us, lit up in all its nighttime magical glory. I smile. She’s happy. I’m happy. If only it could last.
I open a cupboard near the door, pull out a few cushions and a blanket, and carry them over to a couch positioned at the edge of the roof that has the best view. “Milady?” I say, holding a hand out to her.
Speechless, she settles onto the couch, and I drape the blanket around her shoulders and sit down next to her.
“So . . . you were saying?”
She laughs, and takes a moment to reorganize her thoughts. “Right. Okay. I was saying . . . you seem so good here. Your kindred want you here. Are you sure you want to go back to New York tomorrow?”
“Yes, and I’m going to tell you why.”
Ava watches me, head cocked to one side, waiting to hear what I have to say. My heartbeat accelerates under the scrutiny of her gaze. Should I? Shouldn’t I? Should I . . . oh hell . . .
“I have a reason. You see, there’s this girl.”
“Girl?”
“Woman, rather, who I’m just getting to know. Who I would like to know better.”
“What’s she like?” Ava asks, a broad smile spreading across her lips.
“You’re fishing!” I say, pointing at her and narrowing my eyes.
“Innocent curiosity, I swear.” She makes the smile disappear and tries to look serious.
“Well, for one thing, she’s drop-dead gorgeous and has the most interesting, unique look. A look that makes you want to keep on looking. Like your eyes are glued to her, and you can’t rip them away.”
“Ripping glued eyes, got it,” she says.
“But I’m not the kind of guy who thinks that beauty’s skin-deep. There’s a lot more to her than meets the eye. You see, this girl’s damaged”—Ava recoils slightly, and I put my hand up—“like most people who have lived through traumatic events. But she’s taken that pain and done something beautiful with it. She let it make her stronger. And people love her for that.”
Ava just sits there, eyes wide, like she can’t believe what she’s hearing.
I drape my arm across the back of the couch and lean toward her. Here goes nothing. “Ava, I need you to know that this is very uncharacteristic of me . . . being this straightforward. But you have suffered in the past from someone deceiving you, so I am making it a point to be honest. Painfully so. The pain being all mine, I assure you.” I exhale and massage my temples with my fingertips.
Ava shakes her head in awe. “I thought I knew you, before I even knew you . . . and it turns out I didn’t know you at all.”
“I’m not the same person I was before,” I say, and I mean it. “I’ve changed.”
Her gaze drops. “A broken heart can do that.”
“Hearts mend,” I say. “Especially when they have a good reason to.”
Ava looks up and studies my face like it’s one of her art books, like she’s trying to see me from every possible angle, through all the layers into my core. Finally she tips her head and asks, “Are you saying that you like me, Jules Marchenoir?”
“I am saying that I like you very much indeed, Ava Whitefoot.”
With a delighted grin, she crosses her arms and looks out over Paris.
I wait.
Are my palms actually sweating? I rub them on my pants and try not to think about what’s going through her mind.
And then, with no warning, she leans forward, closes her eyes, and presses her lips to mine. My heart stops beating. She’s kissing me. Ava is kissing me. My brain can’t process what’s happening, and my body responds automatically, arms circling her to draw her in toward me. She responds, placing her hands on my shoulders and running them down my arms, pushing them away, wriggling out of my grasp.
“No,” she says, shaking her head, an amused smile on her lips. She leans forward and breathes next to my ear, “This is me. Let me.”
I hold my hands up in surrender. “You, mademoiselle, are completely, one hundred percent, in control.”
Her mouth quirks up on one side. “You don’t know how good that sounds,” she says, her words thick like honey. Then she takes my head in her hands and proceeds to electrify every inch of my body with the most perfect, warm, delicious kiss in the history of surprise rooftop kisses. No, I take that back . . . make that of any kiss ever. It’s just long enough to turn my insides to jelly, but oh man, is it sweet.
“What was that for?” I ask, when I’m able to breathe again.
“It’s a promise,” she says, a playful twinkle in her eye.
“What’s the promise?” I ask.
“That if you’re good, you’ll get some more.”
“I don’t think I’ve had such a compelling motivation in my life,” I say, putting my hand on my heart in only half-joking earnestness.
“Then let’s see how we do,” Ava says.
She leans her head on my shoulder, and I wrap my arm around her, pulling her in close and keeping her there. Together, we look out over the lights of Paris, where, just beyond, is a wide, rolling countryside that ends at an ocean. And on the other side of that ocean lies a bright, shining city of dreams. A city of promise.
EPILOGUE
I’M IN MY ROOM IN THE WAREHOUSE, LACING UP my steel-toed boots, when there’s a knock on the door. “It’s open,” I yell, and Theodore Gold walks in, dressed in a black tuxedo. Black. Not white. I barely recognize him.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to fight in that,” I say. “It looks like you just came from having dinner with the mayor.”
“Back in,” I say, and lead her up the winding front staircase, down the hallway past the library, and up the second set of stairs.
“Are we going to your room?” she asks.
“No. Better,” I say, and passing my door, climb a few more steps and push open the trapdoor to the roof. It’s pitch dark. I breathe a sigh of relief—no one else has had this idea—and I help her step out onto the dark roof before switching on the fairy lights.
“Oh, Jules!” she breathes, and raises her hands to her mouth, gazing around in wonder. Paris lies before us, lit up in all its nighttime magical glory. I smile. She’s happy. I’m happy. If only it could last.
I open a cupboard near the door, pull out a few cushions and a blanket, and carry them over to a couch positioned at the edge of the roof that has the best view. “Milady?” I say, holding a hand out to her.
Speechless, she settles onto the couch, and I drape the blanket around her shoulders and sit down next to her.
“So . . . you were saying?”
She laughs, and takes a moment to reorganize her thoughts. “Right. Okay. I was saying . . . you seem so good here. Your kindred want you here. Are you sure you want to go back to New York tomorrow?”
“Yes, and I’m going to tell you why.”
Ava watches me, head cocked to one side, waiting to hear what I have to say. My heartbeat accelerates under the scrutiny of her gaze. Should I? Shouldn’t I? Should I . . . oh hell . . .
“I have a reason. You see, there’s this girl.”
“Girl?”
“Woman, rather, who I’m just getting to know. Who I would like to know better.”
“What’s she like?” Ava asks, a broad smile spreading across her lips.
“You’re fishing!” I say, pointing at her and narrowing my eyes.
“Innocent curiosity, I swear.” She makes the smile disappear and tries to look serious.
“Well, for one thing, she’s drop-dead gorgeous and has the most interesting, unique look. A look that makes you want to keep on looking. Like your eyes are glued to her, and you can’t rip them away.”
“Ripping glued eyes, got it,” she says.
“But I’m not the kind of guy who thinks that beauty’s skin-deep. There’s a lot more to her than meets the eye. You see, this girl’s damaged”—Ava recoils slightly, and I put my hand up—“like most people who have lived through traumatic events. But she’s taken that pain and done something beautiful with it. She let it make her stronger. And people love her for that.”
Ava just sits there, eyes wide, like she can’t believe what she’s hearing.
I drape my arm across the back of the couch and lean toward her. Here goes nothing. “Ava, I need you to know that this is very uncharacteristic of me . . . being this straightforward. But you have suffered in the past from someone deceiving you, so I am making it a point to be honest. Painfully so. The pain being all mine, I assure you.” I exhale and massage my temples with my fingertips.
Ava shakes her head in awe. “I thought I knew you, before I even knew you . . . and it turns out I didn’t know you at all.”
“I’m not the same person I was before,” I say, and I mean it. “I’ve changed.”
Her gaze drops. “A broken heart can do that.”
“Hearts mend,” I say. “Especially when they have a good reason to.”
Ava looks up and studies my face like it’s one of her art books, like she’s trying to see me from every possible angle, through all the layers into my core. Finally she tips her head and asks, “Are you saying that you like me, Jules Marchenoir?”
“I am saying that I like you very much indeed, Ava Whitefoot.”
With a delighted grin, she crosses her arms and looks out over Paris.
I wait.
Are my palms actually sweating? I rub them on my pants and try not to think about what’s going through her mind.
And then, with no warning, she leans forward, closes her eyes, and presses her lips to mine. My heart stops beating. She’s kissing me. Ava is kissing me. My brain can’t process what’s happening, and my body responds automatically, arms circling her to draw her in toward me. She responds, placing her hands on my shoulders and running them down my arms, pushing them away, wriggling out of my grasp.
“No,” she says, shaking her head, an amused smile on her lips. She leans forward and breathes next to my ear, “This is me. Let me.”
I hold my hands up in surrender. “You, mademoiselle, are completely, one hundred percent, in control.”
Her mouth quirks up on one side. “You don’t know how good that sounds,” she says, her words thick like honey. Then she takes my head in her hands and proceeds to electrify every inch of my body with the most perfect, warm, delicious kiss in the history of surprise rooftop kisses. No, I take that back . . . make that of any kiss ever. It’s just long enough to turn my insides to jelly, but oh man, is it sweet.
“What was that for?” I ask, when I’m able to breathe again.
“It’s a promise,” she says, a playful twinkle in her eye.
“What’s the promise?” I ask.
“That if you’re good, you’ll get some more.”
“I don’t think I’ve had such a compelling motivation in my life,” I say, putting my hand on my heart in only half-joking earnestness.
“Then let’s see how we do,” Ava says.
She leans her head on my shoulder, and I wrap my arm around her, pulling her in close and keeping her there. Together, we look out over the lights of Paris, where, just beyond, is a wide, rolling countryside that ends at an ocean. And on the other side of that ocean lies a bright, shining city of dreams. A city of promise.
EPILOGUE
I’M IN MY ROOM IN THE WAREHOUSE, LACING UP my steel-toed boots, when there’s a knock on the door. “It’s open,” I yell, and Theodore Gold walks in, dressed in a black tuxedo. Black. Not white. I barely recognize him.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to fight in that,” I say. “It looks like you just came from having dinner with the mayor.”
