She shook her head. “It’s not the money.” She had plenty of funds to travel with, if she wanted. She just wasn’t ready. She grabbed a petit four from the open box on his lap, hoping for a change in subject.
No such luck.
“Then what? Everything in your life says wanderlust. Your shirt.” He pointed. “The stones outside the bakery by the fountain. That plaque on the counter by the cash register.”
She should have taken the financial excuse and let him assume. “Just haven’t had the chance to go anywhere yet.” It was more than that. But he wouldn’t get it. She bit into the petit four, relishing the familiar taste. Predictable.
Exactly as it should be.
“Wait a minute. You mean, you haven’t been anywhere?” His voice pitched in surprise.
Her defenses spiked. “I’ve been to Nashville.” Which was only a few hours away by plane. “It was pretty cool.” A little too loud and neon for her more reserved taste, but she’d never admit that to Mr. Motorcycle.
He opened his mouth, then shut it. Then he held up one hand. “I’ll probably regret this, Cupcake, but I don’t get it. You’re young. You’re single. No baggage. You have money, and you seem more than a little obsessed with Paris. You should have gone half a dozen times already.”
Her defenses grew, forming a wall. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I really don’t see how this is your business.”
“Probably for the best.” He rested back against the swing. “You wouldn’t like Paris anyway.”
“What do you mean?” She sat up straight, knocking the swing off its rhythm. “Of course I’m going one day. When the time is right.” She thought she’d have gone by now too. But it still held her back every time she tossed around the idea—that old rush of anxiety that took over every time she pictured herself actually flying away from Story. Pictured herself actually trading the familiar for the unknown.
She always thought she’d have a husband by now—someone to travel with, to help take care of her, to safely adventure with, to live out a love story like her parents’.
It didn’t seem right to go to the city of love single.
“Okay, whatever.” Gerard reached over and set the almost-empty bakery box on the table by his computer. “Just be ready.”
She blinked at him. “Ready for what?”
“I’m telling you, you’re not going to like it. You’re expecting the Americanized version of Paris.”
He was so arrogant. And yet . . . she had to know. “What do you mean?”
He braced one foot on the ground. “What’s the first thing you’d do once you got off the plane?”
That was easy. She opened her mouth, but he quickly interrupted. “I mean, after checking in to your hotel and unpacking and ironing, because you know you were going to say that first.”
She’d never have admitted it, but he was dead-on. Except for one thing. “I wouldn’t iron.” Not on vacation. She’d iron beforehand, of course—and hang everything in her garment bag between those wrinkle-resistant sheets she’d seen on a late-night commercial so she wouldn’t have to worry about it when she got there.
“Good for you, then. No ironing. What’s the first thing you’d go see?”
“The Eiffel Tower.” They said it at the same time, and he shot her a pointed glance. “After that?”
She thought for a second, though she really had no hesitation. She’d mapped out her itinerary a dozen times but had never actually clicked “add to cart” on the airline website. “The love-lock wall.”
“Former wall,” he corrected.
“Well, yeah.” The city had replaced the links with glass. No matter. She still wanted to walk in that spot, where countless of other lovers had walked. Where her parents had walked.
“See the Seine.”
She nodded.
“Then let me guess? The Louvre?”
Had he snuck a peek at her list?
“Then the Champs-Élysées?” He snapped his fingers. “No, wait. Next for you would be Notre-Dame. Church before shopping.”
He was ruining this. “You think you have me all figured out.”
“I do.” He said it so matter-of-factly, it grated across every raw, emotional nerve the busy day—and his presence and proximity—had exposed. “You’ve probably never even heard of the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont. Or the terrace at the Printemps department store? Or the Montmartre vineyards?”
She hadn’t. And she hated he was right.
“People tend to have no idea about the real heart of the city. Forget the overcrowded tourist traps—Paris is so more than just the Eiffel Tower.” Gerard sighed. “It’s the 59 Rivoli art district. It’s the Latin quarter, the Rue Mouffetard. It’s the one hundred and thirty-five Arago medallions scattered across the city floor.”
He kept on, but she tuned him out. Why was he rubbing this in her face? He didn’t understand about her mom or the bakery or even what this fight with Charles was really about.
Her irritation intensified. He just thought he could roar into Story on his motorcycle, judge everyone—and her beloved town—for being different, and psychoanalyze her along the way? All while bragging about what he’d seen and done that was so much better?
She stood abruptly. “Look, maybe I haven’t traveled anywhere yet. Maybe I haven’t checked off my bucket list or heard of all these secret spots in Europe. But at least I have roots.” She pointed. “You’re the one running, Mr. Travel Writer.”
He didn’t answer. And it irked her further.
“You think the traveling bachelor life makes you so cool. Makes you better than everyone here with their quirky hair and bad coffee and eccentric hobbies. So what? We’re unique. And we’re a town family.”
He started rocking the swing, silently, still refusing to answer.
“Everyone here was there for me when my parents died. That’s worth holding on to.” The words tumbled faster, building with indignation. “Who cares if I haven’t made it to Paris yet? At least I’m not afraid to stay in one spot.”
Silence.
She straightened the hem of her sweatshirt, pulling it
