“Ew.” She squeals, delighted.
They leave in a rush and the suite goes quiet.
I sit on the edge of the bed in the master, looking out at Paris, and, of course, I think about Mya.
She’s somewhere in this city. Maybe at the office, maybe on a site, maybe walking home with a baguette under her arm like every other person here. I’m in her city and she doesn’t even know.
I pull out my phone. I could text her and ask her to come for dinner, but the other night was fragile, and I don’t want to bulldoze it.
Still, I don’t want to sit here and do nothing.
I scroll to my Paris concierge contact—someone the office uses—and type out a message.
49
MYA
I’m halfway through redlining a plumbing layout when someone knocks.
I freeze.
No one ever comes over. The building is buzzer-only, and I’m not expecting a delivery. I glance at the time. 3:17 p.m. Then at the intercom, but whoever it is is already at my door.
I pad over and open it a crack.
“Bonjour, madame,” the courier says, smiling. “Livraison.”
He’s holding a big, flat package wrapped in brown paper with a deep green ribbon tied around it like it’s Christmas.
“Pour moi?” I ask, dumbly.
“Oui. Mlle Mya Dessen-Jones?”
“That’s me.”
He hands it over.
I close the door, and just stand there in my tiny entryway, staring at the package like it might explode.
I didn’t order anything.
I carry it to the little bistro table I use as a desk and set it down. There’s a card tied to the ribbon. I swallow, untie the bow, and open the card.
For your Paris walls, so you don’t forget us.
Dinner tomorrow? 19 h. Loulou, Jardin des Tuileries. Table is under Miller.
—W.
My heart lurches in my throat.
Worth is here.
InParis.
And he wants dinner.
At Loulou. The same restaurant where we had our post-courthouse “wedding reception” dinner, where he fed me pasta and we pretended we were newlyweds.