A Second
Chance at Paris by Cole McCade
One week in Paris.
One chance with her childhood crush. And one lie that could ruin it all.
Before she was Dr.
Celeste London, Astrophysicist, she was Mary Celeste Haverford: dork, loser,
the geek formerly known as Hairy Mary. But she’d left all that behind—and left
Ion Blackwell behind, nothing but an unrequited crush and the memory of a high
school field trip, a night in Paris, and the words Celeste had never had the
courage to say. She’d never expected to see him again…until a surprise
encounter on a Parisian riverboat tour brings him back into her life, and gives
her the opportunity to start over as someone new. Someone Ion doesn’t
recognize, transformed from a social outcast into a polished, professional
woman that Ion doesn’t realize is the girl he’s been longing for since
childhood, the ideal he’s dreamed of his entire life.
Suddenly this
vivacious (if charmingly awkward) “new” woman is teaching him that real love is
better than any dream—but Celeste is hiding more than her identity. Hiding
something that makes it hard to trust her increasingly erratic behavior, and
her frequent secretive phone calls. When the truth comes out, the deception
could shatter them both…unless they can give each other a second chance, and
take a risk on love.
With a smile, Celeste
leaned on the rail. She’d been a silly girl, heart on her sleeve, but she kind
of missed that. Falling in love was never the same—never as light, as sweet, as
guileless, the emotion not as raw or real when it became about work schedules
and who paid for dinner and whether it was too soon to have sex. Mundane things
took the romance out of it, when at sixteen it had been about wishing for that
one perfect, breathless, magical kiss with that special someone who didn’t even
know she was alive.
Now she just had a
half-dozen ex-special someones who said she was an amazing friend, but a lousy
girlfriend.
Her eyes stung. She
should be standing here with…someone. People did that; they fell in love and
took romantic trips to Paris, and cuddled on dreamy moonlit boat tours. But
even then she’d have been worrying over her presentation for tomorrow,
wondering if Ophelia gave their father his meds, pondering wind speed for
Kelvin-Helmholtz instability in Jupiter’s Red Spot, picking out constellations…and
never quite here with the imaginary
boyfriend.
She really wasn’t cut
out for relationships.
She lifted her gaze to
the sky and picked out Venus. It hurt, when she smiled. “Guess I wasted a
wish,” she whispered. “Do I get a do-over?”
The soft scuff of a sole
against the deck warned when someone approached. She straightened, rubbed her
eyes, and pulled her hoodie tighter around herself. Last thing she wanted was
to ruin some happy couple’s romantic Parisian night when they stumbled on a
single woman on the verge of a nostalgic crying jag. They’d probably think she
was pulling a Rose, about to fling herself dramatically over the rail of the
mini-Titanic.
The footsteps stopped at
her side, barely a foot away. She caught a sense of height, masculine body
heat, a quietly commanding presence. A low voice rolled over her, husky
baritone like whiskey and silk.
“Belle nuit, n’est-ce pas?” he asked, softly accented inflections
agonizingly familiar. Celeste looked up, her heart tumbling to the very bottom
of her chest and constricting painfully tight.
Fathomless blue eyes
looked over the water, set in an elegantly sculpted face: ten years older, more
weathered, tanned complexion darkened by the shadow of stubble—but so
distinctive she’d know him anywhere. She clutched the railing with fingers
almost numb to the cool metal, blood draining to leave them rubbery. She knew
him. She knew him, but there was no
way it could be him. It was impossible. It was incredible. It was absolutely
unbelievable, and she had to be hallucinating.
It was Ion Blackwell.
Author bio
Twitter: @ColeMcCade
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