I wait another hour before I see her come out the front door, and then follow her to—surprise, surprise—the Café Sainte-Lucie. The café owner greets her and gives her a table in the front window. To avoid all semblance of stalkerhood, I wander around the neighborhood for a half hour before returning to the café. I walk silently up to her table and slip into the seat facing her. She’s so caught up in The Catcher in the Rye that she doesn’t even notice. I wait until she turns a page and glances around the room, and when her gaze finally lands on me she jumps.
My heart turns a flip in my chest. Now that I’m looking into those incredible blue-green eyes, I find it difficult to resist touching her hand. I sort through my various masks, select a wry smile, and affix it to my face. “So, Miss America,” I say, “you thought you could pull a disappearing act and just abandon all of us? No such luck.”
I can tell from her expression that she is happy—relieved, even—to see me, and my pulse speeds up about ten notches. I run my hand through my hair and try to calm myself. I feel almost nervous. What the hell is wrong with me?
“What’s the deal with you dead guys?” she teases. “Are you following me or what? Last night it was Charles, and now you!”
Wait, what? “You saw Charles?” I ask, astonished.
“Yeah, he was at a club I went to near Oberkampf,” she says, her eyes narrowing as she sees my surprise.
“Which club?” I ask.
“Honestly, I don’t even know what it was called. There wasn’t a sign or anything. Georgia dragged me along with her and her friends.”
I have a bad feeling at the pit of my stomach knowing that Charles is still in Paris but avoiding his kindred. “Did he say anything to you?” I ask.
“No, I was just leaving when I saw him standing outside. Why?”
She looks puzzled. I decide to turn the conversation back to the reason I’m there. “So . . . when are you coming back?” I ask.
Her face falls. “I can’t, Jules.”
“You can’t what?” I prod. I’m not letting her off the hook.
“I can’t come back. I can’t let myself be with Vincent.”
“How about being with me, then?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. Where’d that thought come from? I chastise myself, and cover up by winking suggestively, and she laughs. I decide to push it as far as I can. Take advantage of the hole I’ve dug myself into.
Taking her hand, I lace my fingers through hers. “Can’t blame me for trying,” I say, and watch her cheeks flare scarlet as my heartbeat accelerates. Her skin is soft. Warm. And I am touching her for the first time—our first connection—and it feels like the nerve endings in my fingertips are shooting off sparks.
“You’re incorrigible,” she chides, but she doesn’t pull away.
“And you’re blushing,” I respond. I continue flirting for a few moments, enjoying her reactions before forcing myself to come around to the point I’m there to make. I tell her that Vincent is pining away for her.
She looks down briefly, breaking eye contact. And then looking back up at me with eyes glistening with repressed tears, she says, “I’m sorry. I wanted to give it a chance, but after seeing Charles carried home in a body bag . . .”
I remove my hand quickly, and stare back at her, emotionless. I am no longer flirty Jules; I am Vincent’s ambassador. I must persuade her to give him another chance. A voice inside my head whispers, Are you doing this for him? Or for you?
“I can’t let myself fall for Vincent if it means having a constant reminder of death,” she continues. “I’ve had enough of that to deal with in the last year.”
“I’m sorry about your parents.” I turn my place mat over, fish a pencil out of my pocket, and begin to sketch her. That way I don’t have to look at her. To be undone by those warm, trusting eyes.
But with a few lines, I’ve transferred her beauty into a two-dimensional version of my dream girl. Kate has all of the grace and dignity of Botticelli’s Venus, and that is how I depict her. My fingers loosen on the pencil, letting the image flow from my mind to the paper, and I look up to check her real face against the one I’ve given her, and for the second that my eyes linger on her own, I feel a stab to my heart and know I am lost.
I’m falling for Kate. How could I? My best friend is in love with her. And she with him. You must never let them know—the words sizzle through my mind, and I feel like I am bleeding internally.
Kate drags me back to the here and now. “I saw Vincent yesterday sharing a very tender moment with a gorgeous blonde.”
I ignore her words and continue drawing. I can’t look her in the eyes right away. She will see it. She’ll know how I feel. “Vince wanted me to check on you,” I say finally. “He doesn’t dare approach you himself. He says he doesn’t want to cause you any more agony. After seeing you sprint out of La Palette yesterday, he was afraid that you might have drawn the wrong conclusion. Which you obviously did.”
I dare to glance up and see a flash of anger in her eyes. “Jules, I saw what I saw. How much more obvious could it have been?”