Crossed in Love on the Champs-Élysées
Isabelle González had gone the better part of two years without any contact with Marcus Jordan, the love of her life, the man who had stomped all over her heart like a model on a Margiela runway.
And now here he was, standing in front of her in the middle of the street in Paris of all places, a most serendipitous encounter, calling her name. What were the odds? Isabelle did a rapid mental calculation: less likely than Chloë Sevigny hosting another wardrobe sale but more likely than a peplum trend resurgence. (Thank the fashion gods and the editors she worked with daily.)
“Isabelle?” His grassy eyes sparkled down at her like the most perfectly polished jade she’d ever seen—better than the earrings she’d bought on a trip to Hong Kong for the Annie Leibovitz exhibition.
She remembered the sensation of being lost in those eyes, as if they were a meadow in the middle of a daydream, brimming with wildflowers and butterflies. But in the middle of the meadow was a sinkhole, and she never quite knew where it was. She was confident each and every time that she could navigate her way through the blooms, but she always seemed to end up waist-deep in decaying vegetation. (Her shoes were too expensive for that. Mud on her Muaddis? As if.)
“Isabelle, is that really you?”
His golden skin was clothed by a sexy double-breasted suit and his expression was cautiously hopeful. God, he was so handsome. She’d always believed that a good suit is to women what lingerie is to men. No, Isabelle, she scolded herself. Don’t think about how handsome he is. Think about how he broke your heart when he stayed in Brooklyn instead of moving to Paris with you.
It felt like a lucid dream interrupted only by the sounds of taxis and tourists. A balmy breeze rippled through the iconic tree-fringed Champs-Élysées, blowing Isabelle’s syrupy hair across her bare shoulders. She shivered; her arm hairs prickled. All around her, pedestrians passed by, snapping photos of the Arc de Triomphe and stylish architecture on autopilot . . .