“Cool.” He locked his hands behind his back and turned back to the painting.
Holy shit, I didn’t want to get on his bad side.
I walked over to Mike. I almost wanted to make a joke, like “Your quarterback just interrogated me about my intentions towards you.”
But instead, I slipped my hand into his, and tugged slightly until he looked my way with a questioning lift of his brows. I raised my mouth to his lips. “Hey. I like you. You know that, right?”
He kissed me.
All the walking-and-stopping of the museum starved us, so we followed Rachael up to the Marais to get falafel. The Marais felt like Williamsburg, or maybe the West Village—trendy and hipstery and filled with boutiques. Rachael led us next by the Hotel de Ville, the massive and stunning seat of Parisian government, then through winding streets toward the two tiny islands in the middle of the Seine. She got distracted by the Memorial de la Shoah, turned bright red as she tried to dissuade the rest of us from feeling like we had to go in with her, and muttered to herself when Ryan grabbed her arm and towed her inside with the rest of us following. Then she squeezed Ryan’s hand hard enough that that I could see the white imprints from her fingers and nails.
We crossed a bridge onto a tiny, practically pedestrian island, where we stopped for ice-cream and to watch several street musicians. Then it was onward across another bridge to Notre Dame, which we came up at from behind, giving us the chance to admire the swooping flying buttresses and a small garden filled with roses.
While we waited in line in the grand plaza before the cathedral, the boys started wrestling. It began when Ryan started ribbing Mike about Notre Dame, Mike’s alma matter, and Mike had come back with some equally snarky remark about Ryan’s and now all three of them were jumping and turning, displaying a strength and flexibility that appeared almost unreal. People stopped to watch—not people who knew they were celebrities, just casual tourists struck by the beauty of their bodies, by the amazing abilities of the human form.
I watched them laughing. Watched Mike, the brightness in his eyes, the joy on his face. And my heart flipped. Just flipped over and said, yes, that’s right. That’s him.
Somewhere along the line I had fallen in love with Michael O’Connor.
I turned away, my heart beating wildly. What was I supposed to do now? What did you do when you ended up over your head?
I tried to focus on the church, on the saints and the gargoyles. Instead, I caught a glimpse of Rach and Bri, who had also paused to watch the boys, small smiles on their faces. Smiles I doubted they knew were there.
They had figured it out. Most people figured it out. Emotions were part of human life.
But I dealt with people and places long gone, not modern love. Not things that could affect me. And I stood by what I’d said; I agreed that the emotion of love was real. I was chock full of dopamine and norepinephrine and serotonin. But that didn’t make it lasting.
What did I do now? Let it run its course, enjoy it while it lasted, love Mike with all my heart—well, with all my complimentary brain-produced chemicals? That was surely the healthy thing to do, the way most people functioned.
But if you
I lifted my gaze above the Cathedral’s three arched portals to the gallery of kings, all carved drapes and endless crowns. But there were no answers in the stone.
I was beginning to think that was always the case.
We returned to Ireland, and rain.
The O’Connor women picked us up at the airport. They’d cancelled their northern trip due to the endless downpour, and spent the weekend in Dublin, where they could stay dry in museums.
They were not thrilled to hear about France’s lack of rain.
I found all the water soothing. The way it streaked across the windows, the way the ocean pounded against the land and sent up angry white sprays. The world was bleached of every color but green and gray, turned into some strange altered landscape where everything blurred together.
Back at the inn, we settled before the fire, talking about our trips and drinking hot tea and devouring the pastries we’d brought back. I studied Mike’s face, the curl of his lips, the crinkle of his eyes. The dimple when he laughed out loud.
Maybe I could just tell him and follow up by saying I didn’t expect anything. That I just wanted to share. That I was trying to be emotionally open, but I didn’t want to tie him down or anything.
A knock sounded. Jeremy leaned on the doorframe. Scruff roughening his jaw, and two lines folded the skin between his brows. “Natalie. You’re back. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Of course.” I uncurled and stood. I could feel Mike’s eyes as I followed Jeremy, who led me up to his room. “How was your weekend? Is everything okay?”
He shook his head and dropped into his desk chair. I hovered nervously. “Did something happen while I was gone?”
He kept his eyes steady on mine. “An article was published about you this morning.”
I actually placed my hand on my chest, I was so surprised. “Me? What did it say?”
His head wavered back and forth. “About Tamara Bocharov’s daughter, actually.”
My throat dried up. “I don’t understand.” Why would anyone write an article about me as my mother’s daughter? And if they did, why would Jeremy care?
Unless it was really an article about Kilkarten. My arms wrapped around my waist. “What did it say?”
He let out a deep sigh. “The original article was gossip. Nothing really.”
“Because it is nothing. How did anyone even find out?”
His gaze went over me. “Because of him.”
I whipped my head around to find Mike crossing from the top of the stairs to Jeremy’s door. He stopped close enough that I could feel his warmth, and stared right back at Jeremy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Natalie’s always been able to fly under the radar before. No one cared who her mother was. But apparently when a famous running back’s dating a supermodel’s daughter, it gets some attention. Especially when she’s searching for a lost city.”
Oh, God, it sounded like a made for TV movie. It could only get worse if there were aliens. “You said the
Jeremy looked away.
My stomach dropped. “Already?”
His jaw tightened. “It’s not pretty.”
Mike tried to get an explanation once more. “So some articles were written. Who cares?”
Jeremy sent him a hard, sharp, glare. “Natalie is a professional. She’s smart and dedicated, and you made her look ridiculous.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s the absurdity of it all,” I said miserably. “It’s hard enough to get people to take us seriously. No one will fund Jeremy to look for Ivernis anymore, since there’s been too much failure in the past. And Ceile’s done too good a job at making us look like we’re ridiculous questers. And now if I come across as some ditzy blonde who’s just —who’s just playing around in her boyfriend’s backyard with money a wonderful establishment gave me—it’ll look like a joke. No one will fund us, and we’ll never find Ivernis.” I looked up at Jeremy. “What are we going to do?”
Jeremy’s gaze softened slightly when he looked at me. “We keep digging.”
“I am so sorry. I’ll fix it. I promise.”
He closed his eyes. “The only way to fix it is to prove Ceile wrong.”
I was still nodding when he shut the door.
I sagged. Mike caught me, and for a minute I rested against him and wished I didn’t ever have to leave his arms. And then I straightened and walked into our room.
