Page 116 of Xander

“Tell you what, Xander,” she said at last. “I’ve been researching you and asking Damon about you, and from everything I’ve heard, I think you’re a good guy who’s made some mistakes. And if anyone can empathize with people needing a second or a third chance, it’s me. As you can tell, I’ve had a wild past. So, here’s what I’ll tell you—I don’t know where Michael is, but I do know where he isn’t—and that’s Paris.”

I stilled; the whole world came to a stop as well. Then, my heart started beating erratically.

Fuck, was that her way of telling me that Jordan was in Paris without betraying her trust?

“Do you mean to say⁠—”

“Consider it a birthday gift,” she interrupted. How did she know it was my birthday? Damon? “I presume you’re spending it looking for leads in some dark, messy, villainous-looking room. Frankly, that’s too depressing, and I’ve always been a sucker for love.”

“Paris is huge. Will you at least give me a postal code or something⁠—”

That was when someone else took control of her phone—a male—and snapped, “Who the hell is this, and why the hell are you calling my wife?”

Before I could answer or she could respond, the voice spoke again, I assumed after seeing the caller ID.

“WHO THE HELL IS XANDER? If I find you, Xander, I’m going to fucking kill you⁠—”

I hung up, leaving them to their marital squabbles.

I had bigger fish to fry, such as booking a flight to Paris… and finding that damn café Jordan used to visit, the one that reminded her of Henry’s country club.

“It was the last place I was truly happy.”

That was what she had said to me, so that was the place I had to start. How many cafés could there be in Paris?

Jordan

The small café on Rue Perrée was bustling, the fragrance of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the soft murmur of conversations around the quaint table I had secured for myself. This was the place I had told Xander about when we had our lunch at Henry’s stupidly overpriced club. I couldn’t believe it was still there; it happened to be my favorite, and I came here daily.

I finished my croissant and gazed out the window and onto the cobblestone street while I sipped on some noncaffeinated tea. It didn’t have the same kick as coffee, but it would have to do for now.

I closed my eyes when a gusto of sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains and lightly grazed my skin, reveling in its warmth. The golden hue illuminated my contemplative mood, tinged with a hint of melancholy.

For the hundredth time, I glanced at my phone. My message to Xander glared back at me.

Happy Birthday!

He never responded to it. Perhaps I should have said more than just Happy Birthday?

He had sent me all these messages, and now my simple two-word reply seemed beyond lame. I pulled out my phone again and typed something new, something flirty and cute, then I deleted it with a groan.

Ugh.

How do I even start this conversation?

My intricately carved wooden chair creaked slightly when I shifted, my fingertips absently tracing the delicate patterns etched into the tabletop. Everything around me was unbelievably romantic. Why did I choose the most romantic place on earth to get over the romance of a lifetime?

Memories of Xander danced at the edge of my consciousness like they did daily, the bittersweet remnants of our unfinished love story tugging at my heartstrings. The pang of longing for his presence, a yearning for the familiarity of his laughter and the comfort of his embrace hit me the hardest when I was around others.

That’s why they say you’re the loneliest when surrounded by people.

I observed the other patrons at the café when I caught sight of a couple engaged in a heated argument at a nearby table. The tension between them was palpable, their gestures animated and voices rising in crescendo. They were speaking quite fast, and my French was elementary at best. From the words I picked up, putting together a concrete story was difficult.

Something about him being a pervert.

Maybe he was looking at other women?

The first hint of a smile in days graced my face. My mind whirred as I crafted imaginary scenarios to explain the fight, each more elaborate than the last.