I stop her, setting a hand on her arm. “Since we’re friends, I feel I must tell you this, but that plan makes absolutely no sense.”
She squares her shoulders. “It makes perfect sense.”
“How so?”
“Because it’s fun.” Her big green eyes sparkle. “Do you have something against fun?”
When her eyes glitter like that, it’s almost as if fun is something she hasn’t quite experienced in a while. I weave my index and middle fingers together. “Fun and I are like that. But you’re aware that the whole secret code thing won’t necessarily help you score the flat you want, yeah?”
She sighs, on the path to relenting. Then, she stops in her tracks like a dog digging in.
“What? Are we here? You said twenty-eight. It’s the next one,” I say.
She clasps her hand to her mouth and points a few feet ahead. I follow her gesture to a tall pink door. It’s wood, carved ornately at the handle, and is the brightest shade of neon pink I’ve ever seen in this city. “Yes, Joy. It’s a hot-pink door. Paris can be a colorful city.”
Her eyes drift up to the blue square number atop the stone doorway.
Twenty-eight.
A sound slips from her mouth, like a high-pitched whistle.
“Okay, so that’s your building. Are you offended by pink? Did you have a bad experience with a Barbie Dream House? Or does it remind you of Pepto-Bismol, perhaps?”
She shakes her head, drops her hand, and grabs my arm, tugging me into the doorway right before the apartment. Her voice turns to a whisper. “It’s like seeing a pair of Christian Louboutins.”
“Okay. So that’s good then? You like Louboutins, I presume?”
“I don’t just like them. I’m in love with them. I can’t control myself around Louboutins. I don’t care about whether he’s tricking me. I want nothing more right now than to live in that building with the hot-pink door.”
This woman is a hoot. She’s a wild, over-the-top whirlwind. “You can’t be serious.”
In an instant, her expression turns deadly serious. “It’s pink, Griffin. Pink.”
“Yes, I know.”
She points at it. “It’s literally the cutest, coolest, most unnecessary door in the entire city, and therefore I must live there.”
“How does one thought follow the other?”
“Have you ever bought a purse because it’s irresistible? A necklace you didn’t need? Perfume because it’s decadent?”
“Oddly enough, no,” I deadpan.
“Well, I have. And the door is the same. I want to live there because it’s everything that makes Paris different and special. Because I would never find this door back home. Because it has no purpose except to beguile me with its absolute, utter cuteness. And that means you’re going to have to handle this whole mess for me because if I go in there, I’ll say yes to anything.”
I drop a hand to her shoulder, my tone deadly serious. “I understand your predicament. The door is like a good game of rugby. You’re powerless when it comes on the telly.”
She arches a brow. “Rugby? Ha. More like football. The real kind. But if that helps you understand it, let’s go.”
As Joy emerges from the doorway and closes the distance to number twenty-eight, a thin, goateed man with glasses strides up the street, chattering away on his mobile. His voice is soft, but I pick up a few words, something about not that place and you know why, and then sorting it all out.
I furrow my brow, not liking the sound of those words.
When he ends the call, he spots my companion. “Hello! You are Joy!” He takes her hand and shakes. “I am Stephen. Good to meet you.”
“Yes, nice to meet you. This is my friend, Griffin.”
I take his hand and shake, speaking in English since that’s how the conversation began. “Good to meet you.”
He looks at Joy. “You want to see the flat now and take the key?”
“Yes, the flat on the third floor,” I say, quickly switching to French.
“Oh, you speak French?” he says, segueing instantly as he unlocks the pink door that has, evidently, rendered Joy incapable of anything but ogling. It’s a door, for fuck’s sake. Sometimes I think I will never understand women.
“I’m familiar with the language,” I say as we stride into the foyer.
He laughs. “Familiar. Good one. Then I need to tell you something. I feel absolutely terrible, but we can’t rent her the place she wants.”
“She gathered that, but what’s the story, man? She’s not going to pay more for some crappy place.”
He brings a hand to his heart. “I would never ask her to do that. Never. Do I look like a slimy salesman?”
“Of course not. But when you tell her you have something on the third floor, and she gives you a deposit, and then you tell her it’s the second floor, you have to know that sounds exactly like you’re trying to pull the wool over her eyes.”
“No. I would never do that. I want her to be happy. You have to let me explain what happened and show you the other one I have in mind for her.” Stephen gestures to the marble floor as Joy’s eyes drift down and widen. I think she might be falling in love with the floor, too. She mouths so adorable.
All the more reason to stay strong for her.
Stephen stops at the winding staircase, then drops his voice to a whisper, his nose crinkling in disgust. “Cigarettes.”
Joy’s eyes widen, and she recoils. She understood that word for sure. “The previous occupant smoked?”
Stephen nods, switching to English as he speaks to her. “Yes. It will take at least one week to clean it.”
Joy cringes. “I can’t wait a week.”
He holds up a finger in excitement. “Okay. That’s why I have another one for you.”
“Why didn’t you just tell her that?” I ask in French.
“Because my English isn’t perfect. And I have a beautiful place for her that I want her to see.”
“I hate smoking,” Joy
