Page 8 of City of Love
Man, I would kill for some baked goods right now. A fruit tart, or maybe one of those croissants with chocolate in the middle—
But no. Now’s not the time. “Move,” I say instead of addressing his words.
He doesn’t look at all deterred by my cold treatment. If anything, it seems to amuse him; the corners of his lips curl into an unpleasant smile as hetsksat me.
“Sweet Lydia,” he says, leaning into me. The feel of his hot breath makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck, a chill creeping down my spine. I try to yank out of his grasp, but his grip is viselike.
“Sweet Lydia,” he repeats. “No one but me will ever want you.” His tone is conversational as he goes on. “You know that, don’t you? No one but me will ever be interested in you. You should accept that now. It will be easier. I know you were angry with me last year, but that was because Thomas Higgins cheated on you. You needed to take your anger out on someone, so you reported me to the principal. But I forgive you for that,” he says, and I feel sick to my stomach at his words.
He isn’t done, though.
“Thomas didn’t want you,” he says, “but I do. Surely you see now that we really are meant to be together?” He tilts his head, looking at me. “The fact that we’re here together in Paris proves that. The sooner you accept that, the better off you’ll be,” he says, stepping back and loosening his grip. “I’d get with the program if I were you.”
I breathe in a sudden gasp of fresh air as he lets go of me completely, turning around without another word and disappearing into the crowd.
Adrenaline has my heart pounding in the worst way, the blood racing through my veins as my knees struggle to work. I feel suddenly jittery, and I stumble back a few steps until my back is against the wall. I sink down until I’m sitting, taking deep, calming breaths. He’s gone now; everything is fine. I let my eyes flutter closed, focusing on breathing exercises that Jade taught me once when she went through a meditation phase.
In, out, in, out, in, out…
I shift where I’m sitting, willing my pulse to calm down. As it does, a pleasantly drowsy sense of relaxation comes over me.
In…out…in…out…
More deep breaths. A more peaceful headspace. And then, before I realize it or am able to stop it, sleep takes me.
***
Somewhere on the edge of consciousness, a door slams shut. I’m vaguely aware of jumping at the sound, and the noise makes me stir. For a second I panic; where on earth am I?
Then I realize where I am, and the panic doubles.
Crap. The train!
I bolt up, stumbling as I stand and all but running back to where I left Mlle Hilliard. My body is moving faster than my mind, which is still trying to wake up, but it doesn’t end up mattering.
Because Mlle Hilliard isn’t there. No one is, and neither is my luggage. And as I look at the clock on the wall overhead, I see why.
The train has gone, leaving me behind with nothing but my dead phone and a memorized address tucked away in my mind—the most recent return address from the packages Noel has sent me over the last two years.
I have the address, I guess, which is good, but how on earth am I supposed to get there?
Chapter 4
Noel
I’m on edge.
I spent most of the day today with my brain only half-engaged in my work. Myotherwork, that is—the bartending I do part time to ensure I can pay rent on my flat and provide support for the guys. I was lucky it’s not the kind of job where I need to be fully mentally present, because my mind kept circling back to Lydia, and as much as I tried to stop thinking about her, it never quite worked.
I was hoping my nerves over meeting Lydia would have subsided by now, but that is not the case. If anything, they’re worse this evening. I’m tempted to take the coward’s way out and stay at my flat tonight rather than go back to my parents’, where Lydia will be staying for the next month. But just thinking about that rubs me the wrong way; I’ve got a lot of faults, but I’m not one to run away from my problems.
So I’ll go over tonight after I meet with the guys. It will be late at that point; Lydia might not even be awake. She’ll most likely find out tonight that I’m not a girl—my mom talking about her son rather than her daughter will be a dead giveaway—and maybe sleeping on it will leave her less annoyed when we finally do meet in person.
A guy can hope. Either way, this way I can formulate exactly what I’m going to say and how I’m going to explain.
When I finally head back to my place, it’s raining and I’m tired. I’m ready to go to bed, even though it’s far from time. I step into my building gratefully, making my way toward my studio.
But when I approach, I stop dead in my tracks. Because the last thing I expect to see is a girl sitting in the hall, her back against the door to my apartment.
