Chapter 7

T he shrill ringing of my phone woke me in the morning. I rolled on the massive bed, which may as well have been a cloud, and snatched my phone off the nightstand. I slammed my fingers down on the button on the screen, thinking I was turning off an alarm I'd forgotten about.

Instead, Jackson's voice rang through the line. "Lucinda?"

I jolted upright in bed, gaping down at the call I had, indeed, answered. "Fuck," I swore.

"Why the fuck haven't you been answering my calls? And what the hell is up with this goddamn restraining order?" He seethed as soon as he had my attention.

"You shouldn't be calling me," I breathed.

"It's time to talk," he spat.

I sucked in a trembling breath, contemplating ending the call and going back to bed. I'd been at Sophie's last night until three in the morning and it was after seven now—way too early to be awake. Instead, I said, "Talk about what?"

"You killing our baby."

As if the phone itself hurt me, instead of his cruel words, I threw it across the room. It clattered against the wall and hit the ground. I barely heard Jackson cursing me over and over again through the phone.

I killed our baby.

It was all my fault.

I was frozen, staring at it as he raged. He yelled for a long time—heinous things, ruthless things, things no woman should ever have to hear. I listened to it all.

Then, blissfully, the line went dead. The room fell silent.

I looked down at my soft stomach, then curled my arms around my torso. "I'm sorry," I whispered to someone who wasn't there. "I wanted you so badly."

How could I love something I never had?

I never had a baby. I was never going to have a family. Yet my soul grieved like it had lost the most significant piece of it.

Drawing in a shaky breath, I dragged my fingers through my hair and stumbled out of bed to retrieve my phone when it buzzed again. I turned it off and set it back on the nightstand without bothering to check who it was. Slowly, I crawled back under the covers and pulled them up my chest.

I never thought about being a mother. I went to college and busted my ass through nursing school. As soon as I graduated, I went to work—and that was all that mattered to me. My job paid well and made my parents smile; I didn't think I needed anything else.

Even before college, though, I didn't give much thought to having a family. I knew some women who wanted it more than anything; they couldn't wait to have kids. And that was great for them, but it was never my path.

Until I peed on a stick and the test turned positive.

If it was a girl, I would have named her Halley. A boy would have been named Benjamin. We would have had a wonderful life together.

I rubbed my hand over my stomach. The pain was long gone and the bleeding had stopped. It was nothing but an overly painful menstrual cycle; I'd spent weeks trying to convince myself of that. My body needed to expel non-viable tissue.

It wasn't a baby. It never lived.

Frustrated with my own emotions, I thrashed around in bed, shoving my face into the pillow. I checked the time on the nightstand clock again. Only five minutes had passed since the last time.

Fuck.

I wasn't going to be able to go back to sleep, despite my apparent hangover. I slunk out of bed and sulked through a shower. All the makeup in the world couldn't hide the dark circles that had taken up permanent residence under my eyes, but I tried anyway. I pulled on a pair of flare jeans and a black t-shirt, then tossed my travel satchel over my shoulder.

I was out of the hotel room by eight in the morning. There was a small coffee shop less than a block from the hotel that was already bustling with locals and tourists alike. I found myself a seat and ordered a double espresso and a croissant.

I loved French food and everything, but I would have killed for an all-American breakfast —scrambled eggs, hash browns, biscuits and gravy, bacon, and a huge cup of black coffee to top it off.

Still, I ate my croissant and gulped down my espresso. The server gave me an annoyed look when I ordered a second of each. I didn't care.

" Pardon ." A deep voice with a thick French accent caught my attention. I jolted in surprise, raising my eyes to take in the man hovering over my table. " Il n'y a pas des tables et j'ai besoin de café. Puis-je m'asseoir avec toi? "

I couldn't help myself. I snort-laughed and shook my head. "I don't speak a word of French, sorry."

He straightened, and I could have sworn something twinkled in his green eyes. He couldn't have been much older than me, probably in his mid-twenties. Everything about him screamed French , from the designer button-up to the leather boots he wore—and everything in between. His hair was an ashy blonde, slicked back with more product than I'd ever used.

"My apologies. I asked if I could share a table with you. All the others are taken," he said in careful English.

I hesitated, glancing around. Sure enough, every table overflowed with people and several stood along the sidelines, waiting for their opportunity. I was waiting for my second coffee and croissant, so I couldn't leave and give him the table.

"I-" I cleared my throat and motioned to the seat across from me. "Sure. Have a seat."

" Merci ," he muttered, sitting.

I turned my attention back to people-watching the street around me while he rustled around in his shoulder bag. When the server returned with my second breakfast, my new tablemate spoke in French too fast for me to understand what he said. I glanced over when he pulled a tablet from his bag and sat back with a digital pen to draw on the screen.

Satisfied he wouldn't be weird or bother me, I sat back in my chair and turned on my phone, quickly putting it on do-not-disturb. I opened social media and, for the first time in days, made sure to check the astronomy picture of the day. Today, it was a compiled photo of the phases of Venus. I read the information in the caption while I ate the rest of my croissant. I gulped down the espresso in two swallows, resisting the urge to slam the cup down and demand another. No amount of caffeine could wake the exhaustion that had settled into my bones.

"Indy!"

I looked up at the sound of my sister's voice. She approached the café with Holland at her side, smiling brightly. I lifted my hand to wave.

"We were just coming to get you. Why aren't you answering your phone?" Addie said as she leaned down to hug me. Before I could answer, she stiffened and narrowed her eyes at the stranger next to me. "Who's your friend?"

I shrugged off her concern without looking at my table-mate. "There were no tables. I'm leaving anyway."

Next to Addie, Holland cleared his throat. His eyes lingered on the French stranger, who seemed startled, then annoyed. He muttered something under his breath in French, which I was happy to ignore.

Addie spoke up suddenly, her voice high and squeaky. "Have you paid? We need to get going."

"What are we doing today?" I asked, turning in my chair to search for the server.

Thankfully, he was on his way to my table. Before I could even reach for my purse, Holland pressed a wad of cash into his hand and motioned for Addie and me to follow him.

"Thanks," I said as I stood. "But I'm perfectly capable of paying for my own things." Addie wrapped her arm around my shoulder and guided me away from the café. "And I can walk fine on my own, thank you."

"Sorry." Addie jerked away, licking her lips and glancing over her shoulder.

We barely made it to the end of the block before I heard the "Oi!" behind us. I turned to see the French man from the café; he had my sweater in his hand and held it outstretched.

"Oh, thank you!" I cheered, reaching for it.

He smiled when he handed it to me, ignoring the glares Addie and Holland sent his way. "Enjoy Paris," he said simply, his accent thick and heavenly, then turned on his heel to return to the café.

"What is it about this city?" I asked when we continued on our way. "All the men are unbelievable eye candy."

My sister's only response was a nervous laugh.