I did see some pretty things I’d have liked to get for myself or for my girlfriends, but my credit card couldn’t handle the price tags. And although I had Tucker’s card and even his permission to use it, I just didn’t feel right about it.
“Not even a souvenir t-shirt?” Lucas asked when I came out of yet another store empty-handed.
I shook my head. “Even the t-shirts are a little steep for me.”
“Yeah, these places jack up their prices because it’s prime real estate. But I know some better shopping areas, less touristy ones. I’ll tell you where to go.”
“Thanks. I’d like that.”
At the end of the avenue stood the Arc de Triomphe, massive and solid and majestic, way bigger than I’d imagined it to be. As we got closer I stopped walking and stared, open-mouthed. “Oh my God, it’s so huge!”
“I hear that a lot.”
I made a face at him. “Hahaha. Just be quiet and let me enjoy this stuff, OK? That’s your only job today.”
He saluted me.
“So can we climb it?”
“You can climb it.”
“Why only me?”
He shrugged. “I’m not fond of heights.”
I looked at the Roman arch again. It was pretty high at the top. “You’ve never been up there?”
“I have. The view’s incredible.”
“Well, I’ll go by myself then.”
“No problem. I’ll wait for you here.” We’d reached the end of the block, where a café with a huge red awning and lots of tiny outdoor tables sat kitty corner from the arch. Lucas chose an empty table and sat down. “Aren’t you going now?”
“I guess so.” But I stood there a moment longer, feeling strangely let down that he wouldn’t accompany me. “You sure you won’t go with me?”
“I’m sure. Go on.” He waved me toward a metro station sign. “The easiest way is to go underground and take the walkway.”
I followed his instructions and used my Paris Museum Pass to enter. I actually had two passes—I’d ordered them ahead of time for Tucker and me. As I climbed the hundreds of steps to get to the top of the arch, I thought of maybe giving the other one to Lucas. I wonder if he likes art. I knew he must like music since he majored in it along with psych, but other than that and his job, I knew almost nothing about him, not even his last name.
My leg muscles were burning after a few dozen stairs, but it felt good, and the physical exertion lifted my mood. When I get down, I’ll ask more about him, and I’ll be open-minded and even pleasant, dammit. I won’t compare him unfavorably to Fucker, I’ll stop judging his hair, facial or otherwise, and I’ll even thank him for spending the day with me.
Because really, when I thought about it, he could have just sent me on my way last night. For heaven’s sake, it’s not like I’d been so charming he’d been unable to resist me. I’d been pretty bitchy, actually.
A little breathless from the climb, I reached the top and stepped into the wind, pulling my sweater tighter around me. Carefully, I approached the edge and took in the panoramic view. But rather than the Eiffel Tower or Louvre or La Défense, my eye immediately sought the café where Lucas was waiting for me, and I thought I saw him there, but I couldn’t be certain. I pulled out my camera and took a few pictures before heading back down the steps, through the underground walkway, and back up to the café. Lucas was right where I’d left him, an empty coffee cup on the table. He’d been checking his phone, but quickly tucked it into his pocket when he saw me, something else Tucker would never have done. He was glued to that thing.
“So? How was it?” Lucas pulled the chair on the other side of the table out for me.
“It was amazing. It was breathtaking. It was…” I lowered myself into the chair and pumped my fists in the air. “Triumphant.”
Lucas laughed and raised his hand for the waiter. “That good, huh?”
“Well, I didn’t see anyone kissing or getting engaged, which automatically makes it better than my visit to the Eiffel Tower yesterday.”
“Good. Would you like coffee?” he asked as the waiter approached.
“Sure, thanks.”
Lucas held up two fingers. “Deux cafés.” The waiter picked up the empty cup and retreated, and I leaned forward onto my elbows.
“So, Lucas...wait, what’s your last name?”
“Fournier.”
“So, Lucas Fournier. You majored in psych and music, you’re a bartender, and you’re scared of heights. Tell me something else about you.”
“I didn’t say I was scared of heights.”
I blinked. “Yes, you did.”
“I said I wasn’t fond of them. There’s a difference.”
A smile tugged at one corner of my mouth. “Of course. Pardonnez-moi.”
“And I’m not really a bartender. The Beaver belongs to my brother Gilles, and I just fill in there sometimes when I’m in Paris.”
“What do you normally do?”
“I teach intro psych at NYU. I’m just here through the summer visiting my mother and doing a little research.”
“In psychology?” I asked before taking a sip.
“In music, actually.”
“What are you researching?”
“The traditional folk music of Romani guitarists. I’d like to write a book about it.”