1 - Paris isn’t romantic at 8:12 a.m.
Ava
Paris isn’t romantic at 8:12 a.m.
It’s impatient, loud, and smells like butter. Which, to be fair, is the only reason I’m still standing in this line instead of hiding in my rented shoebox of an apartment.
“Bonjour,” I tell the boulanger. My voice does that bright, overeager thing Americans do when we’re trying not to be… American. “One pain au chocolat, please.”
“Un pain au chocolat,” he corrects without looking up, sliding the pastry into a bag.
There’s a sigh behind me. Loud enough to be heard, quiet enough to be deniable.
Then, in English so French it has cheekbones: “It’s pahn au chocolat. But sure. Murder the language. Paris survives worse.”
I turn.
The man is taller than the line deserves and entirely too put-together for a Tuesday. Dark coat, scarf knotted like a signature, eyes the color of an early morning river. He looks like he was born leaning against doorframes making women reconsider their life choices.
“Thanks,” I say, sugar-sweet. “I’ll put that on my list of crimes. Right under ‘breathing loudly’ and ‘existing.’”
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “I can forgive the second.”
“Lucky me.” I hold up my phone. “Should I schedule a public apology to France or just cry into my croissant in private?”
“Pain au chocolat,” he says, softer this time, like a secret. Then the corner of his mouth lifts, and the spell breaks because the boulanger is shaking my change at me like I’ve ruined his morning.
I fumble coins, Metro card, sanity. The bag tears. Of course it does. The pastry slides out and kisses the tiled floor with a tragic little sigh.
“Mais regardez-moi ça…” someone behind him mutters.
“Les touristes…” another adds with a headshake.
Paris, ladies and gentlemen: brutally efficient with disappointment.
I crouch, stare at the chocolate-striped casualty, and will myself not to cry. Don’t cry over bread. Don’t cry in public. Don’t—
“Do you have a five-second rule in France?” I ask, mostly to myself.
“At this bakery?” the man says smoothly. “We have a zero-second rule. And a very judgmental floor.”
I bite back a laugh. The boulanger sighs again, slides another pastry into a bag, and thrusts it at me with the mercy of a man who has seen too much.
“Merci,” I whisper. Then, because I’m trying to be a better version of myself in a city that doesn’t care, I add, “Et désolée.”
When I turn, the man is watching me. Something flickers across his face, quick as a camera flash. Recognition? No. Impossible. I don’t know him. I’d remember him.
“Have a good… breakfast,” he says. The pause is a tease. As if I am the event.
“You too,” I shoot back. “Try not to choke on your superiority.”
“Occupational hazard,” he murmurs, stepping past me, the bell chiming as he disappears into the Paris morning.
Day twenty-one in Paris. Day one of the new job. Day eight hundred and something since the breakup that hollowed me out and the months that erased me and the years I spent trying to glue myself back together.
I left marketing behind—ten years of campaigns, deadlines, fake smiles—because it was killing me. It made things look like they mattered. Architecture, though… that was the dream I’d had since I was ten, sketching kitchens in the margins of my notebooks. Architecture makes things matter without pretending.
Quitting wasn’t brave. It was necessary.
Now I’m here, portfolio in hand, hoping Paris is kinder than it looks.
The brass plaque is simple: Atelier Moreau | Architecture Intérieure.
Inside, the lobby is all pale oak and steel, quiet confidence. My shoes squeak too loud against the floor. The receptionist—Sabine—greets me with a smile, but her English carries the weight of every dropped consonant.
“Bonjour. You are… Ava Hart, yes?”
“Yes.” My palms are damp. “First day.”
“Bien. Welcome.” She gestures. “Sit, please. Gabriel will arrive.”
I nod. Clutch my portfolio like it’s a shield.
This is why they hired me, I remind myself. Not because I speak French well (I don’t), but because so many of their clients don’t. Foreign investors. American, British, Middle Eastern. People buying a slice of Paris and needing someone to translate more than language.
That’s me. The bridge.
Footsteps. Voices. The soft hydraulic sigh of a door.
I look up.
It’s him.
The man from the bakery.
For a full second, my brain short-circuits.
He stares back, that crease at his eye like a scar from smiling too little. His gaze drops to my portfolio, then lifts to my face. A flicker—recognition, confusion, something sharp.
No. Not possible. Not now.
“Good morning,” he says in English so smooth it stuns me. No accent. None. Like he’s lived in Chicago longer than I have.
I blink. “Morning.”
Sabine beams. “Ava, this is Monsieur Gabriel Moreau. Directeur associé.”
Director. Partner. My boss.
Of course.
Gabriel’s gaze lingers on me for a beat too long, then he nods once. Professional. Controlled. “Welcome to Atelier Moreau. We’ll start with a team briefing.”
The meeting is a blur—talk of clients, budgets, timelines. When he speaks French, it’s fast and precise; when he switches to English, it’s seamless. Sabine translates when needed, but mostly for me, which makes me flush.
When the others leave, he stays. Arms crossed, posture casual, eyes anything but.
“Your portfolio,” he says. “The Rue Sedaine kitchen. That was built?”
“Yes. In school, we had a partnership—”
“I know the program.” His nod is approving, unsettling. “You have a good sense of warmth versus weight. Not everyone does.”
Compliment. My instinct is to flinch. I don’t. “Thank you.”
He studies me for a long beat. “You understand why you’re here?”
“Yes. To support the international projects. To make sure clients feel… understood.”
“Exactly.” His tone is clipped, professional, but his gaze feels heavier. “Most investors don’t speak French. They trust someone who can guide them through our process. That’s your role.”
“Got it.”
He tilts his head, then: “Site visit this afternoon. You’ll need proper gear. Helmet, boots, vest. Sabine will take you.”
I nod quickly. “Of course.”
He watches me for a second longer, and then—like he can’t help himself—asks, “Have we met? Before today?”
I laugh, brittle. “Yes. This morning. I murdered your language and a pastry.”
His mouth almost softens. Almost. “Before that.”
I search his face. Something pricks at my ribs. But I shake my head. “No.”
He doesn’t argue. Just nods once, as if that’s the answer he expected—or feared.
“Briefing’s in your inbox. See you at two.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me with the weight of his gaze, and a question I don’t want to answer.
