“Mmm.” I lean back, narrow my eyes at her in mock suspicion.
“Dad.” She drags out the word. “It’sKennedy.”
Ah, right. Kennedy.
“Uh huh. And what are you andKennedytalking about at 11 a.m. on a school day?”
“He’s on spring break too, remember? And we’re talking about art.”
“As long as you’re being safe,” I state, a slight frown pulling at my brows at the thought. “No sending weird stuff.”
“Ew, gross, Dad.”
I take a couple of calls. One with Seattle and one with the client I’m here to see, but part of my brain keeps drifting.
Did Mya remember today?
Brianna snaps her sketchbook shut after a while. “We should go to dinner tonight,” she announces.
I glance up. “We can do dinner.”
“A fancy dinner,” she says, face bright.
I laugh. “In Paris, everything is fancy.”
“You know what I mean. Somewhere special. Will you let me pick the spot?”
I think about it for half a second. “Sure.”
She pulls out her phone again. “Okay. I’ll make a reservation.”
“You know how to do that?”
“It’s 2025, Dad.”
“Right.”
We finish up around five and head back to the penthouse. I answer a couple more emails and Bri disappears into her room, resurfacing in a dress, tights and a beret she bought just for this trip.
“You look very French.”
“Merci,” Bri says with an exaggerated roll of her tongue.
On the way down, I ask, “Where are we going tonight?”
She smirks. “It’s a surprise.”
I chuckle. “Why the secrecy?”
“You’ll see.”
In the car, Brianna leans forward and whispers the address to the driver like we’re in a spy movie. The man nods and pulls away.
I watch Paris roll by through the window, evening settling in. I wonder again if Mya has remembered this date or shoved it in the part of her brain markedfake marriage, do not open.
After a longer drive than I expected, we turn into the Tuileries side and slow near the entrance to the jardins.
My brows pull together.