Page 24 of Playing Mr. Perfect

“No, you won’t,” she says with a smile.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” I can feel her tension easing as we follow the others around a corner.

“Have you been to Paris before?”

“Once, with my family when I was a kid, but we didn’t spend much time in the city.”

“No?” she asks with surprise. “What did you do here?”

“We mostly explored the Paris Region forests.”

“Really? That’s different. I didn’t even know there were forests here. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone coming here to see forests.”

“I’m not surprised. My upbringing wasn’t typical by any stretch of the imagination.”

“What do you mean?”

“My parents are wildlife biologists, and my mother is also a wildlife photographer. Our home base is in Ridgeport, Mass, but most of my childhood was spent traveling overseas with my family. We lived in remote villages for months at a time, in homes and tents and huts, exploring rainforests and jungles and learning about other cultures.”

“Wow. That must have been an amazing experience,” she says as we arrive at the bookstore, and the others start taking pictures of it.

“For some of us it was.” I motion to the bookstore. “Do you want to snap a shot?”

She shakes her head. “This is for Amber. She’s wanted to see this bookstore forever, and thanks to Dash, her dreams are coming true. But I don’t need pictures of a building that’ll just sit on my phone.”

“Dash is the king of romance. Well, I’d like to get a picture.” I pull out my phone, and before she can complain, I drape an arm around her shoulder and take a selfie of us.

“Clay,” she chides.

“Don’t worry, I’m not posting it anywhere.” I text the picture to her and pocket my phone.

Her phone chimes, and as she checks the text, a smile crawls across her face. “What’s this for?”

“So you don’t forget me. Come on.” I take her hand and follow the others inside.

Pepper doesn’t pull away, and I don’t let go as we explore the ancient bookstore, with its meandering rooms and narrow passageways. The worn floors and massive floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves bending under the weight of the books give the literary haven character. Stacks of books litter corners and tables, and greenery winds around structural posts elevated by small concrete blocks. There are plants in odd places, epigrams painted on stairs and above doorways, and the rooms seem to be never-ending.

We head upstairs, checking out reading nooks and a maze of rooms. “What do you think, Pep?” I ask as we walk through one room to another.

“It smells like old books,” she whispers.

“Is that what that smell is? I thought it was dust bunnies. I keep expecting an old man with round spectacles to shuffle by talking to himself.”

She laughs softly and whispers conspiratorially, “I can see him wearing suspenders and an old white dress shirt stained yellow with age.”

“I think we passed him three rooms ago,” I joke.

“I bet a guy like that lives here. This would be a great place to play hide-and-seek.”

“We could get lost for days in here,” I say as we meander into another room, the two of us whispering like kids. “I bet you had great hiding spots when you were little.”

“They were only great because they were obvious and nobody looked there.”

I picture her as a little girl, calculating her chances of getting caught in different places based on some mathematical equation. “Makes sense. What was your favorite one?”

“I’m not telling you all my secrets.” She peruses a bookshelf.

“Ah, playing it mysterious, are you? I’ll figure it out. It’s got to be outside, because there were too many kids in your family to hide inside.”