Текст книги "Running Back"

Автор книги: Allison Parr

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Paul grumbled. “You didn’t. I let you land that punch, because—”

I kicked him.

Unlike the O’Connors, he didn’t pretend he hadn’t felt it. “Jesus Christ! Does everyone in this family communicate by kicks?”

Mike took a swig of his drink. “We like to be subtle.”

“You’re all mad.”

Lauren dropped down beside him. “As hatters. Why is your cheek swelling?”

Paul leaned back and delivered a long look at Mike. “Ask your brother.”

Mike shrugged. “Ask Natalie.”

I widened my eyes at Lauren. “It’s totally not my fault. How did he not know you two were a thing?”

She let out a beleaguered groan. “Because he’s an idiot. They’re both idiots.”

We spent the next hour and a half needling each other and devouring an unseemly amount of fish and chips. At some point my gaze, now slightly fuzzier, fell back on Kate and Maggie, who still sat close. I shook my head. “They must have figured everything out.”

Mike ate a poor, innocent fry doused in vinegar and salt. “Figured what?”

“Any lingering resentment about your dad and uncle. Paul,” I said, remembering Patrick’s month mind, “you sounded like you knew what was between the brothers. What was it?”

He cut a derisive look my way. “None of our business.”

Lauren laughed. “So basically, you’re clueless.”

He scowled at her. “My mum said they all had a fight, that Brian was always a rebel but it worsened, and then he took off for America and never came back. And the next thing Maggie heard, he was married. Broke her heart.”

Mike snorted. “You make it sound like he married my mom as soon as he arrived.”

Paul shook his head. “Why don’t you think he did? Do you know how many undocumented Irish are in America? They can’t come home if they ever want to return to the States.”

Well, I didn’t know. “How many are there?”

“Forty, fifty thousand.” He scoffed at our astonishment. “Don’t any of you read the papers? There was a whole article this morning.”

Mike leaned forward. “What are you implying? He married my mom for citizenship?”

Paul leaned back. “I’m not implying anything. Just stating the facts.”

Mike shook his head. “They got married because they were in love.”

Paul laughed. “Ah, I’m sure of it.”

I squeezed Mike’s had so he didn’t leap up and attack Paul across the table. “He probably wouldn’t have left Maggie and Ireland if he was madly in love with her.”

“Unless,” Paul said darkly, “he had an excellent reason for wanting to get away.”

Mike’s grip tightened on mine, and I didn’t need to look at him to know his face had gone stony. He was thinking about his father’s involvement with the Nationalists again. “That’s possible,” I said quickly, “but instead of just conjecturing, why don’t we ask them?”

They all stared at me like the crazy bug had bitten me. Paul shook his head. “I don’t want to uncover that old shite.”

“We can’t ask them about their old romances,” Lauren added.

I shrugged. “Why not? What’s the worst that can happen?”

They were all silent for a moment, and then Mike stood abruptly. “I’m sick of only knowing half truths.”

Lauren sighed and also stood. “It’s on your head if she freaks out.”

They all started forward, but I tugged Mike’s hand to stop him. “Maybe I shouldn’t go with you guys.”

Paul raised his brows. Lauren leveled a look at me. But Mike was the one who spoke. “This is your crazy idea, Sullivan. So get your ass up.”

So all four of us crossed the room and ranged ourselves before the O’Connor widows. Mike took center stage. “What happened twenty-seven years ago? Between Dad and the two of you.”

Kate’s cup rattled against the saucer as she plunked it down. Maggie spoke sharply. “None of your business.”

Lauren looked mulish. “We’re curious. And everyone here loves to gossip, so if we buy enough pints, someone’s going to talk. But we’d rather you did.”

The women exchanged a glance, and then Kate sighed in defeat. Maggie scowled. “It was all bound to come out sooner or later. Come on, then. We’ll go back to my place.”

Chapter Nineteen

First, Maggie had to make tea for all of us. She poured for herself last, and then we settled around the low wooden table, warm mugs between our hands as the rain started to patter down. “We grew up together. Patrick and Brian and me.” She nodded at Paul. “I had a baby sister, you know, but she was ten years younger and quiet, so we never paid her any attention.

“Brian was the daring one. We’d go swimming at night or tell our parents we were on school trips and sneak out to parties. Stupid things. Patrick was a little older, and stubborn as hell. Came with us but would worry the whole time.”

She paused and turned her mug before sipping from it. “And I was...young. Not purposefully cruel, but I flirted with Patrick when I knew my heart went to Brian. Stole kisses from both. Still, I didn’t expect Patrick to be so shocked when Brian proposed and I said yes.”

Beside me, Mike shifted. Slowly, I lay my hand on his and our fingers entwined. Maggie pushed out a breath and continued. “We were going to live at the farm when he came back from university. But Brian—he was so rash. He wanted a united Ireland. He wanted to go off and fight.”

Mike jerked. “Mom—”

Kate pressed her lips together and looked down.

Maggie continued. “We tried to talk him out of it. I begged. Patrick forbade it. And yet Brian said, ‘I have got to do this. I love you, but this is bigger than us.’” She glanced at Kate and then pushed her shoulders back defensively. “It’s true.”

“So?” Lauren’s face was tight.

“So he left. Made some very unsavory friends. And when he came home, they came with him. All these angry young men. And then one night the farmhouse burned down, and there was insurance money, and where did it go? To the nationalists.”

Mike’s hand tightened on mine. “You’re not saying he did it on purpose.”

Maggie met his gaze straight on. “Brian wouldn’t. Those friends of his—I don’t know. It didn’t look good.”

“But why did he leave?”

She shook her head. “He owed money. He should have used the home insurance to pay off the bank, but it disappeared the same way the loans had. He thought he could make more in America. But if he did we never saw it. I think he mostly just wanted to wash his hands of it all.” She took a stoic sip. “And I did take up with Patrick while he was gone. I would have gotten over it, but Brian never asked me to.”

Mike focused on his mother. “Did you know all of this?”

“I learned.”

Lauren kept shaking her head. “So he just married you so he could stay? No. Dad wouldn’t do that.”

“I loved your father very much. And he loved me. It just took time.”

“And that was it?” Paul burst out, gaze locked on his aunt. “You never talked to him again? It was just—over?”

Maggie looked out the window. “Sometimes things are just over.”

Mike leaned forward, his hands pressed together between his knees. “But I remember that conversation, about there being trouble at Kilkarten. That was why I thought there was something buried. You were shocked. You cried. You didn’t know he’d married you for a green card until then? That was ten years into your marriage.”

“I know.”

Mike looked shaken. I squeezed his hand. It wasn’t easy, finding out something you believed so strongly in hadn’t really existed. “He should have told you earlier.”

Kate exhaled. “It’s all in the past.”

To her, maybe. But looking at Mike’s face, I could tell it wasn’t in the past for him.

We barely spoke until we’d closed the door to his room. He sat down on his side of the bed and fell backward. I lay down from my side, so that our heads touched each other. “It’s weird. Learning something about someone, when you thought you already knew everything.”

“Maybe it’s impossible to ever really know anyone.”

“But he was dead. He wasn’t supposed to change.” He reached his hand up, and I met it with my own. Our fingers tangled, his warm and strong. “I can’t imagine him loving anyone other than my mom. It feels wrong.”

I turned my head and smiled. “Because he had a life before her?”

He turned with a slight smile. He was upside down, his eyes turned the wrong way. “Okay, I’m being unfair. But I wish my mother had told me.”

“I guess she didn’t think it was any of your business. The nerve.”

He growled and then kissed me. Our lips met, upside down, almost unfamiliar, and then we were laughing and spinning and climbing on top of each other, seeking comfort and warmth and happiness.

* * *

On Friday it rained so hard there was no point going into the field. Drizzles were fine; deluges were not. Outside, the wind roared, like the inside of a seashell. I curled up against Mike’s chest and glared out our window. “Great. Now what?”

“I vote we stay in bed all day.”

“Vetoed. Too many people will know we’re having sex, and that’s embarrassing. Like my advisor. And your mother.”

He started to grin when I mentioned Jeremy, and then the smile flatlined. “Okay. Maybe not ideal.”

“I guess we can play more board games.”

“No. You cheat.”

Valid point. Two nights ago we’d been playing Stratego, and when it became obvious I was going to lose, I started moving the immobile bomb pieces.

Well, it made the game more interesting.

Someone pounded on the door. “Mike! Mike!” The knob rattled. “Open up!”

He groaned and rolled out of bed. “Go away, Anna.”

“Open! Now!”

He pulled the door open. “What?”

Anna threw herself on the loveseat, caught sight of me, and barely managed to restrain her eyes from rolling. “You have to drive me over to pub. The adults have been interrogating me for two hours about my college plans.”

Mike crossed his arms. “The pub where you’ve been underage drinking.”

She turned her eyes on me. “Natalie!”

I jumped up and headed for the shower. “Oh, hey. I am not part of this conversation.”

“Tell him it’s legal here!”

“Shirker,” Mike muttered as I closed the bathroom door.

When I came out, an agreement had been reached. It turned out no one wanted to stay indoors, so we all headed out to the pub. It was already packed, but Mike and I managed to squeeze in at the end of a table next to the O’Brien family and their four children. Five-year-old Kelly kept sticking her elbow in my side and stealing peeks at me, but other than that it was a pretty good fit.

As Mike spoke, Kelly stopped watching me and started watching him. Her little brother got jam all over Mike’s arm, which he absentmindedly cleaned off.

And then, in the middle of our happy, light-hearted conversation, he looked up with this half smile, like he’d forgotten it on his face. “I’m going back home in three weeks.”

“For another weekend?”

“No. For good. I have training camp on the twenty-sixth.”

I shook my head, oddly numb. Of course he had training camp. He was a New York Leopard. “Are you excited?”

He shrugged. “I’m always excited for a new season.”

Right. Right.

“If you find something, you have flexibility about where you’re based in your off-season, right? But what if you don’t find anything?”

“Then I’ll probably stay here and keep looking.”

He took a long drink. “Then I really hope you find Ivernis.”

A lump formed in my throat. I tried to clear it away with the same grace as a cat with a hairball. “I’ll definitely be back in New York late September, to present at the conference.”

“What will you guys give your talk on if you don’t find anything?”

Our talk was registered as a Field Report, and I was fairly certain the American Academy of Archaeology had accepted it because they figured Ceile and Jeremy’s feud would provide some much needed entertainment at the conference. “I was thinking about just crying for a straight hour if we have nothing to say. Or maybe Ceile will come and throw tomatoes at us.”

“Sort of like performance art.”

“Yeah. Maybe we’ll hold different tools as we do it. Trowel—tiny tears. Shovel—big wail.” I took a bite of my sandwich. “It’s funny—the conference is actually at the Javits Center, so right next to your stadium.”

He grinned. “The season will’ve started. You can come to a game while you’re home.”

Under the table, I hooked my ankle around his. “Without a doubt.”

That evening, Lauren and I were playing checkers before the fireplace when Mike came in with a slight smile. I rolled over and looked at him. “You know those charts where there’s a different smiley face for each emotion? We should have one of you, except instead of frowns and tears they’d all be different versions of you smiling.”

Kate made a mom noise. “That’s such a sweet idea.”

Well, I wasn’t sure about sweet. I was going for clever.

“We should have one of Anna,” Lauren said. “Except instead of smiles, it would be scowl variations.”

Anna demonstrated one. “You’re so funny.”

Mike sat down next to me. “And which smile is this?”

“You have a secret.”

He raised his brows. “Not a very long lasting one. Want to go somewhere this weekend?”

“Dublin?”

“Paris.”

Anna cried out, “I want to go to Paris!”

Her mother and sister swatted her.

“Ryan called and said he and Rachael are stopping by after her work trip in Italy, and that Malcolm and Bri might fly over as sort of a last fling before training starts. You in?”

Paris. For a fleeting moment I juggled ticket prices, but then a line of can-can dancers kicked through my budget. “I’m in.”

* * *

Lauren stopped by the library the next evening while I went over data. “Hey. Just wanted to check—do you have a dress?”

I blinked at her. “What?”

“Thought not. My brother’s a space shot. You’re going somewhere fancy, right? He’ll almost definitely get a tux delivered to the hotel.”

“He didn’t say we were going anywhere.”

She just gave me an oh-poor-you look. “You’re meeting up with Rach and Bri? You’re going somewhere fancy. It’ll be for charity. But it will also be for dresses.”

I frowned uncertainly. “I have that black dress I wore for the month’s mind...”

She dropped down next to me, shaking her head. “Nope. Won’t cut it. Don’t worry, you can rent cocktail dresses online and have them delivered to your hotel. Easy.”

I stared at her. “Crazy.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun.” She pulled the computer toward her and started a search. “Look, this site has two hundred different options. And it’s in English.”

“I speak French,” I muttered. But I was already being drawn into the sparkly gowns, which Lauren clicked through without stopping, until we reached one golden ball gown that made us both oooh.

“Maybe over the top, but see? You can find something nice.”

I suffered a thirty-second moral quandary about spending money renting a dress, and then the dress won.

Anna wandered in ten minutes later. “What are you guys doing?”

“Renting a dress in Paris for Nat.”

She plopped down beside us and tore open a bag of chips. Crisps. Whatever. “Sweet. Don’t get that one, it’s ugly. That one’s super skanky. No, that’s gross.”

Kate joined us after another twenty minutes. “What are you all studying so diligently?”

“Dresses,” we chorused, in what was possibly the twee-est moment of my life.

We narrowed it down to three choices—a long lavender gown Lauren thought would go well with my hair and eyes; a short black thing Anna favored, though I wasn’t so sure about the weird puff of fabric on the sleeve, and a short, simply cut silver dress with a boat neckline. It was kind of weird but appealing nonetheless.

“Hey, what size are your feet?”

I hadn’t even thought about shoes. “Nine-and-a-half.” They all made faces. “What? What sizes are you?”

“I’m a six,” Anna said.

I stared at her. “Are you serious?”

She shrugged nonchalantly. “They’re beautiful too. I have beautiful feet.”

“She does.” Kate smiled fondly. “She gets them from me.”

I turned to Lauren in astonishment. She shook her head. “I’m no Cinderella, but my feet are still smaller. Just think of it as an excuse to buy fancy French shoes.”

“But I don’t wear fancy shoes.”

Anna popped a chip in her mouth. “Now you do.”

Mike came in, and stopped when he saw the four of us gathered around my computer. “Breaking news?”

I looked up. “Are you getting a tux delivered in France? For any reason?”

“Oh, yeah. There’s some charity thing Friday night.”

Kate’s head popped up. “And when were you going to tell Natalie this?”

His eyes flickered back and forth between all of us and he started to back up. “I can tell when I’m not wanted. I’ll just...go disappear.”

“Go have a boys’ night with Paul!” Lauren yelled after him.

He ducked his head back in. “I’d rather be traded.”

I met his eyes. He grinned and wrinkled his nose at me and vanished.

The O’Connor women went with us to the airport, as they planned to do a little more exploring of the country while we were out of it. Kate gave me one last box before we left. “These are from Maggie. I know you said you could just pick up something in France, but Maggie had your size, and I thought—well, you don’t have to wear them if you don’t want to.”

“Thank you.” I took the box but didn’t look inside. “I’m sorry about digging up the past.”

She smiled painstakingly. “It’s time we got over it. We could have used you ten years ago.”

Chapter Twenty

So. The thing about the Eiffel Tower? It was big.

That shouldn’t have surprised me. When it was first built in 1890, it was the tallest building in the world, and at fifteen hundred feet it still rose above the rest of Paris, the most iconic part of an incredibly iconic skyline.

Yet at first, catching glimpses of the monument between Haussmann’s elegant apartments as our taxi zoomed through the streets, it looked like no more than a toy. Even when we reached the narrow, tree lined streets of the seventh arrondissement—the neighborhood that housed the Tower, upscale homes and our touristy hotel—and a leg of the structure peaked through at the cross streets, I thought, oh, that’s not that big.

Then we dropped off our bags, walked over and looked up.

And up.

It was like a monster. A gorgeous metallic beast that cut into the sky, so large that when you stood by one of the legs it blocked out everything else.

We climbed to the first level, and then took the elevator to the top. Paris spread out before us, as different from Kilkarten as New York from the Andes. To the south, the Champs du Mars spread out before us, a patch of green amidst the elegant tan and gray buildings with their turrets and balconies. A dark, shadowy rectangle sprung up in the distance like a blot against the skyline, while just slightly to the left the much more pleasing golden dome of Napoleon’s tomb marked another park. Farther on came the Seine and its bridges. The shadow of the tower stretched across the green water, pointing toward the Arc de Triumph and its many avenues. Closer, the palace and gardens of the Trocadéro curved toward us.

Gazing at it made my heart expand in my chest, until I felt like I might float off, fueled by admiration and happiness and joy and beauty. And then I turned my back on it all and kissed Mike until I thought sheer euphoria would carry me off.

When I drew back, he was grinning so hard his dimple showed. “What was that for?”

I kissed the dimple. “It is a rule that you kiss on top of the Eiffel Tower.”

He slid his arms around my back and pulled me closer. “That so?”

“In fact, if you weren’t here, I’d just have to walk up to some stranger and kiss him.”

For lunch, we spread out a blanket halfway between the monument and the military academy on the other side of the park. Like-minded tourists and locals surrounded us. Children raced tricycles while their parents chatted on green benches.

Men jangling Eiffel Tower keychains walked about, targeting camera-wearing tourists and extracting exorbitant amounts of money. A man with dozens of roses moved from couple to couple.

“Don’t do it,” I muttered to Mike as the salesman walked determinedly toward us. “Don’t make eye-contact. Say non, merci.”

Bouquets were shoved in our faces. “Hello, monsieur! A flower for your beautiful lady?”

Mike looked up. “Yeah, sure.”

I stared at him. “What?” He was not going to buy an overpriced, touristy flower. No. No way. Ridiculous! Unbelievable!

Mike handed me a red rose.

I buried my nose in it, and then frowned at him as the man walked away. “You know they marked this up like five-hundred percent.”

“Do you like it?”

I inhaled the strong, heady perfume, deep and rich and velvet. “Maybe.”

“Isn’t Ecuador famous for roses? Or is that bananas?”

I laughed. “Both.” We unpacked the picnic we’d brought: a baguette, a wheel of Camembert, slices of ham and tiny, dark grapes. “They have these giant rose farms, and they’re just stunning—full and deep and perfect. They’re some of the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen. And I’m just a walking cliché—roses are my favorite.” I tore off a chunk of bread and unwrapped the cheese. “But they breed them for beauty, not fragrance, and so they have almost no scent. And I always sort of thought a rose without a scent was like a person without a soul.”

He stopped assembling his sandwich and grinned widely. “Look at you. Yeats two-point-oh.”

I laughed. “What can I say. If I don’t find Ivernis, I can always write greeting cards.”

Afterward, we dusted off the crumbs and took pictures of each other in front of the Tower. A girl, not much older than Anna, watched with a beleaguered expression as we took selfies and finally walked over, determination in her step and resignation in her voice. “Want me to take that for you?”

Despite her self-sacrificial tone, she took six pictures in quick succession. When she handed the camera back and strode away, she only made it twenty yards before visibly sighing and walking over to another hopeless couple.

So then we spent the next twenty minutes watching her as her instinct to help overpowered her desire to ignore everyone. “I always daydreamed about being a spy,” I admitted when she finally headed out of view. “Probably stemmed from my nosiness.”

He rolled over onto his stomach. “Not a bad cover, being an archaeologist. Good reason to travel and bug people.”

I grinned and waved my flower in his face. “It’s actually a classic. Archaeologists have been spying since the first world war.”

“What? No way.”

I relaxed back on my elbows, admiring the drifting clouds. “My favorite story is about this Egyptologist who passed messages in hieroglyphs, and just told the occupiers that it was an inscription he needed help translating.” I raised my brows. “See? We are the most badass profession.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’d make an awful spy.”

“You don’t think I’d make an awesome femme fatale?” I fluttered my lashes at him.

I’d completely been kidding, but his gaze went dark and he reached out to brush my hair behind my ear. My heart fluttered. Mike made me feel like I was as stunning and amazing as any woman that graced the silver screen.

Then a crew of loud American boys tripped over their own feet, and we pulled apart as they milled before us and pushed one of their members forward. He cleared his throat and performed the ubiquitous chin nod at Mike. “Hey. Are you Michael O’Connor?”

I’d been with my mother a handful of times when she’d been recognized. She’d always slipped out the scornful half smile, the drops of disdain. If they offered a hand she raised her brows, if they smiled she frowned.

Mike grinned. “Yeah, that’s me. What are you guys doing here?”

They were study abroad students at Sciences Po, and they clamored for Mike’s attention. A couple of them checked me out until Mike blatantly wrapped his arm around me. And then, so easily I barely noticed it was happening, he extricated us from the group, leaving them with shining eyes and puffed up chests.

“You’re good at that.”

“Ryan and I used to make bets about how fast we could get out.” He let out a laugh. “You should see Keith. If he gets bored he walks away from people mid-sentence. Abe pretends his mom’s calling.”

“Aw, that’s a cute one.”

“Yeah, that’s why he does it. Subtle publicity work when he’s hemmed in by old ladies. I don’t think he pulls that one on guys.” He quirked a brow. “Speaking of mothers. I have some ideas for how we should spend the rest of the day.”

“Like eating bonbons and checking out the Louvre and the gadgetty, steampunky museum?”

For one hopeful moment, interest distracted him, and then he leveled a deliberate look at me. “Like I looked up your mother.”

I let my head thump down on him. “Nooo.”

He marched on. “Apparently, when she moved to Paris at thirteen, she lived in model housing in, coincidentally, this neighborhood.”

All of a sudden hot anger swamped me. I shoved my hair out of my face. “Who cares? What do you want to do, traipse around her old stomping grounds? What’s that going to do?”

He shrugged, still keeping those light, steady eyes fastened on me. “It’s where she grew up.”

I snorted. “She never grew up.”

“Can you blame her?”

I tilted my head, some of my anger fading at the odd note in his voice.

He stared at the Eiffel Tower. “She spent years working when she should have been having a childhood.”

I also looked at the metal structure. “It got her fame and money.”

“Was it worth it?”

He looked so calm, his chiseled face imperturbable. It struck me how few people he ever let in, how few realized there was anything behind the charm. “I don’t know. Was it?”

He turned back to me and reached out to trace my cheekbone with his finger. “I’m just saying. It was a large part of her life.”

I laced my hand through his. “All right, then. Let’s go.”

* * *

The walk through the narrow streets was beautiful. Even the tourist shops added flare. Bright scarves caught our attention from sidewalk stands. Every block seemed to have a boulangerie piping the scent of fresh, crusty baguettes into the air. Small, round pastries and fruit glazed with sugar filled their windows. We almost smacked into a man carrying a giant slab of half-alive meat into the boucherie, and almost keeled over from the yellow perfume of the fromageries.

I was in heaven.

Little nooks and crannies kept jumping out at us, demanding our attention: a hidden churchyard with a mossy fountain; a marble plaque on a building declaring this the site where two members of La Résistance died. A florist shop with such beautiful bouquets; a tour crawling by on Segways; a park with an old Metro sign done up in beautiful Art Deco style.

The model house was tucked away, down two quiet streets, through a gate and a private garden. The gate pushed open, though it looked like it was supposed to be latched, and we walked past potted plants and into the small lobby of the building.

On one wall, bright flyers waved in the summer breeze as the door fell shut behind us, while straight ahead a man in a suit glanced up from behind a counter. He didn’t quite frown as he took in everything from our sandals to my ponytail, but he spoke with no little disdain. “Puis-je vous aider?”

My French, which I’d had to learn for grad school, was decidedly rusty. I cleared my throat and tried anyway. “Ma mere avait l’habitude de vivre ici. Pouvons-nous jeter un coup d’œil?”

He heard my accent and didn’t even bother speaking in French. “The residences are private.”

“Oh. Desole. Merci.”

Mike leaned closer. “What’d you say?”

“Just that my mom used to live here and we wanted to look around.” I shrugged and turned. “Well, that was a fail.”

Mike grabbed my arm. “Hey, no.” He turned back to the man. “Her mom lived here for five years.”

I twisted so I could catch his wrist and tugged him toward the door. “It’s not a big deal. We tried.”

The man behind the counter didn’t deign to chime in.

Mike reached into his pocket, and I yanked harder on him, embarrassment rising. “Mike. There’s not even anything to see.”

Behind us, the entrance bell chimed, and another wave of summer air swept in. I tugged again, determined to catch the door and be on our way. Two tall girls in slimming black passed us, chattering rapid-fire in some language I didn’t understand. They looked at Mike and one giggled.

“Come on, Nat. Don’t you want to talk to them?” To the man he said, “There must be some way—”

“Non. This is a private house. You can not just barge in.” He let out a puff of air. “It is this entitled attitude—”

Mike squared his shoulders. “Come on, man—”

“Mike, let’s just go—”

From another door, a man emerged, this one short and broad. “Ce qui se passe?”

The first man responded in rapid fire French far beyond me, but his frantic gestures made it quite clear we were disturbing the peace. “See?” I hissed at Mike. “Now it’s a whole issue.”

“Jesus, Nat, I’ve never seen you so worked up.” He pulled up his most soothing smile. “Uh, bonjour. Ma copine et moi would like to look around. Is that okay?”

Okay, he looked up how to say girlfriend in French. If I wasn’t so tense, I might find that cute.

But seriously, he couldn’t just smile and ask the same question over and over and hope the answer would change.

The second man opened his mouth, his gaze flicking over to include me as he spoke. “It is against policy—”

He stopped, and his jaw dropped almost comically. “Oh, putain.”

The other man glanced at him quickly, and then stared me down. I stood frozen.

Mike leaned over to murmur in my ear. “I’m going to assume that was something like sacre-bleu, which is the only French curse I know.”

Something like. “Hi.” I self-consciously pushed my hair back. He obviously recognized me—recognized my mother in me. “I’m Natalie Sullivan. My mother used to live here.”

“You have her eyes.” He dropped the Hs so the sentence was almost entirely a river of vowels.

I smiled uncomfortably.

“Such a great model, your mother.” He ran his eyes up and down my body. “You also?”

“Me? Model? No. No. I’m an archaeologist.”

Apparently that wasn’t as cool as modeling, because his nose crinkled slightly. He craned his head to see me from different sides, and then nodded. “You are tall enough.”

Well, excellent.

The man nodded, then turned to Mike. His gaze lingered on the red hair. “This is your boyfriend.”

“Yes. This is Mike O’Connor. He plays football—American football—in New York.”

“Ahh...” The man’s expression made his thoughts on American football very clear.

“We didn’t mean to bother you—we just thought we’d stop by—we were in the area—”

“Come. I will do your eyes.”

“No.” I would have backed away if I didn’t have a two-hundred pound weight holding my arm. “That’s okay. I just wanted to see where she lived.”