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I chuckled. “Maybe. But it’s also genius.”
The museum’s curator arrived a short while later, inspecting the room circumspectly. We walked through the rest of the rooms hand in hand, but nothing compared to The Mona Lisa and the thirty minutes of heaven with just her and Luke.
“Where would you like to go for dinner?” he asked when we stepped outside.
“Is there something close to the Eiffel Tower?”
“Leave it with me.”
***
It shouldn’t have surprised me when a table, a violinist, and a server awaited us at the base of the Eiffel Tower all inside a plastic bubble, so locals and tourists would not disturb us.
“This is unbelievable, Luke,” I said, looking around our bubble.
He smiled and in the candlelight, his face beamed up at me as though I’d just been the one who had made all his dreams come true instead of the other way around.
We talked about everything and nothing over dinner. I told him about the promotion I was up for and he told me about some recipe he was tinkering with at home. We laughed when I told him about my first and only attempt at making homemade French fries. I nearly burned down the apartment when I poured frozen fries instead of fresh potatoes into a pan full of hot oil. He made me promise to stay away from the stove and stick to only French kissing with him in the future. I sealed that promise with a kiss.
“Do you mind if we walk back to the hotel instead of taking the car?” he asked when we finished dinner.
“Of course not.”
He interlaced our fingers and we walked through the narrow cobblestone streets.
“So, how many times have you been to Paris?” I asked after he pointed out his favorite bakery.
“Two I think. I don’t even remember most of the trip the second time, but the first time I came, I stayed for nearly six months.”
“Six months!” I pulled his arm back to look him in the eye. “But didn’t you—”
“Didn’t I, what?”
“I was going to say get fired. But I guess not.”
He straightened his shoulders and I felt a weird tension between us for the first time. “So, what did you do for six months?”
He stared out into the street and didn’t answer at first. I thought I’d said something wrong but he continued. “I threw parties, dated several models, and oh yeah, I worked at that bakery.” He pointed ahead of us.
My eyebrows shot up. “That one? With the blue canopy and blue patio umbrellas?”
He nodded. His fingers eased up on my hand and his shoulders relaxed. “It was great. I learned how to make croissants and baguettes. I was terrible at it, that’s why I hardly bake now, but I learned a lot.”
“Really?”
“When I first arrived, that bakery was the only thing open at six in the morning when my friends and I emerged from whatever party we were at. So, I got to know the owner. I would frequent the bakery each morning and bring my friends with me. My friends and I…”
He trailed off and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a dick, so I’ll just say it. We were the it-boys. Sort of like celebrities at the time. We partied, hosted lavish events for French A-listers, and trashed many hotel rooms in several of our all-nighters. I’m not proud of that part of my life, but there was a silver lining, I guess,” he grinned.
“One morning, after a long night, I sat at the bakery drinking espresso when the owner told me he had to shut down by the end of the month, lamenting about the rent and the high cost of living. So, I called up a reporter I knew and she took my photo in the bakery that afternoon, drinking my espresso and a croissant I had baked earlier on my plate. I told her it was the best place in town. The following morning, shortly after the picture was published, a crowd began to form outside. People lined up for hours that day just to say they visited the place or took a picture at the table I usually sat at and posted it on social media. The lineups continued for months and traffic remained steady for years. It turned the business around.” His voice became more animated as he told the story.
“Have you always been the fixer in your family?” I asked.
He turned to look at me, his brow creasing. “No. What do you mean?”
“Well, it seems like that’s exactly what you did with the bakery and this whole trip and… well, my painting. It feels like you’re always trying to fix something.”
He stopped walking and stared straight ahead. “I never… I never really thought about it.”
