Olivier finally spilled his guts at lunch. We found a little cafe a few blocks from our hotel—it was too early to check in, so we still had our bags with us—and I was currently stuffing my face with pastries and drinking two lattes in a row.The city bustled around us: people walking and talking, cars going by, bicycles cycling past. The sound of French being spoken filled the air, although I heard a lot of English and other languages as well. Nearby was a couple sitting on a bench, both of whom were eating what looked like éclairs. Why hadn’t I ordered an éclair? I needed to do that ASAP.I’d practically stuffed my face with food—a delicious chocolate croissant followed by two different flavored éclairs, coffee flowing freely, and then a platter of macarons and petit fours that were so amazing that I nearly cried.“Are you even listening to me?” Olivier cocked his head to the side.“What was this again?” I held up a bun filled with some kind of preserves.“Brioche.” His lips twit
“I think it might be closed,” I said.“The windows are boarded up. Of course it’s closed.” Olivier, for his part, kept trying to peer through the small spaces between the wooden boards hammered to the windows. Like he’d be able to see someone inside. But he was so agitated, I wasn’t about to tell him as much.“Shit,” said Olivier. “Shit, shit, shit.”I yawned. “Yeah, pretty much.”We’d taken a taxi across Paris to find this antiques shop, the address of which Olivier had on a small piece of paper in his pocket. Despite both of our attempts to find the address on Google Maps, Google kept trying to redirect us to some random spot that turned out to be a broken-down bridge on the Seine.So we’d had to wander around on foot. Olivier had stopped to ask for directions—which made me grateful that he spoke French, but I wouldn’t tell him that, no way—but we got a lot of confused expressions. One man told us we were in the wrong part of Paris entirely. Another woman said that we were
“He says it’s the right phone number,” said Olivier in exasperation. He returned to speaking French with the shopkeeper, a middle-aged man with his hair parted right down the middle and smoothed down with an excessive amount of hair gel.We’d returned to the bookshop where Olivier had gotten the phone number yesterday. Apparently, the shop owner was insisting that the number was correct. I could see Olivier getting frustrated, mostly that the man didn’t seem inclined to double-check.I began to wander through the aisles of books. Most of them were in French, obviously, but I found the small section of English books. Most of the selection consisted of French authors translated into English, along with various classics. At the bottom of the shelf, though, were a handful of romance novels—in English, no less.I pulled out a historical romance by a favorite author of mine. I hadn’t read this one, and I’d already finished the one romance I’d brought with me. I was a total bore and
My brother Liam glared at me through my phone screen. “Why do you keep ignoring my calls?” he demanded.Okay, I had been ignoring his calls. I’d also yet to inform Liam about the whole thing with Olivier, the clock, and our da. Liam knew I’d gone to Ireland to deal with our grandda’s estate, but I hadn’t told him I’d wanted to look for our da. He’d blow a gasket.“I’m busy,” I said, which was true. “Besides, the time difference means you keep trying to call me in the middle of the night.”“Not true. I’ve always called you in the morning here, which would be the afternoon your time.” He peered at me, like he could make out all of my secrets. “You look tired.”“Wow, thanks, bro. You always know how to make a girl feel good.”“I told you I didn’t want you going over there by yourself. Is it too much? Maybe you should come home.” He upped the guilt trip by adding, “Your nieces miss you.”Liam and his wife Mari had two daughters. Fiona had just turned four, while Dahlia was almost two
The drive to Jeanne Durand’s home took longer than either of us expected. Despite only being a few miles outside of Paris, the traffic crawled at the slowest possible pace. By the time we’d left the city, we were both hungry for lunch and had stupidly not packed anything to eat. I’d almost asked our taxi driver if he had any food, but I hadn’t yet gotten that desperate.When we arrived at our destination, Olivier paid the driver and headed straight for the front door. As for me, I was enjoying taking in the beauty of the French countryside. The address was a little cottage that looked like it had been built centuries ago, although for all I knew it had been built within the twenty-first century. A lovely little garden took us down a path to the front door of the cottage, hanging vines nearly covering the door number.It was idyllic, straight out of a fairy tale. The bees buzzing, the smell of fresh, blooming flowers, the warm sun. All of it together made me antsy, like an axe m
The moment the train left the station in Paris, Olivier rose and said, “I’m going to get some coffee,” and left me to my own devices.After my drunken shenanigans last night, Olivier had practically carried me back to the hotel. I’d proceeded to puke a second time—thankfully, in a toilet this round—and had eventually fallen into a restless sleep. It had only been upon awakening that I’d realized that I’d forgotten to book the flight for our trip to Berlin.When I’d informed Olivier, he had said calmly, “I know. I took care of it.”I’d been simultaneously grateful and annoyed. And I was even more grateful that he’d booked us train tickets instead of a flight, because good lord was I hungover. The thought of being smashed inside a plane for hours was enough to make my stomach lurch.Besides, according to Olivier, the only available flights would’ve taken about as long as riding the train. I hadn’t had the energy to confirm that tidbit. All I cared about was closing my eyes and trying
My head rested against the warm grass. I groaned, stretching, feeling the rays of the sun on my face. I didn’t want to wake up. It smelled so good, and it was so deliciously warm.Then I heard someone call my name. “Niamh,” the voice said. It repeated my name, more forcefully this time. “Niamh.”I opened my eyes. Olivier was lightly shaking me awake, and I realized in a flash that I’d fallen asleep with my head against his shoulder. And to make things even worse, I’d proceeded to drool all over his sleeve.“We’re arriving in Frankfurt,” said Olivier. “Wake up.”“I’m awake, I’m awake.” I grimaced at the wet spot on his jacket, but he hadn’t yet noticed it. I wiped my mouth of any remaining drool. Geez, could I be any less sexy?Olivier pulled at the arm of his jacket. Then he raised an eyebrow at me. “Left me a gift, did you?”I sank down into my seat. “Sorry. I don’t usually drool.”He took off his jacket and stuffed it into his bag. “That jacket cost me over a thousand eu
We arrived at the address we’d received from Jeanne early the next morning. After meeting in the lobby, Olivier had been polite but distant. It still snagged at my heart, but I forced myself to put it behind me.We had more important things to deal with. Like finding this stupid clock and my father. Then again, if he knew the effort I was putting into finding him, he’d probably think it was hilarious. I hadn’t known him, of course, but based on what Liam had told me, Connor Gallagher hadn’t taken many things seriously. Including his family.The store was located five miles from our hotel, in the northern part of Berlin. It was a nondescript storefront, except for the creepy mannequins in the window.One wore a dress straight out of the fifties, a lacy apron tied in the front, while the other mannequin wore a suit that had shoulder pads so large that it looked like a linebacker. Furniture from various eras—leather couches, stuffed velvet chairs, and mod-style tables—were just a