Chapter 6

Paris, seven years ago.

Ethan adjusted his laptop, but the pixelated face of Mr. Pierre remained, the café's Wi-Fi bars dropping from two to one.

Outside café de la Mairie, the rain poured down like a torrent, making the air in the café cool despite the air conditioning turned off.

“….considering… prop-…” Mr. Pierre’s face was now frozen mid-sentence with the infuriating spinning circle.

He moved his laptop again, “Hello? Mr. Pierre?” The circle kept spinning for a few more seconds before the call dropped entirely. He bit back a curse as he opened his email and quickly drafted out an apology email.

He had spent three months working, trying to secure a meeting with this particular investor, and had even flown all the way to Paris to meet with him, only to be informed via email that the investor had an impromptu trip out of the country. But he was benevolent enough to give him fifteen minutes on a Zoom call, but even that had failed.

He wasn’t about to give up, although it seemed like the universe wanted the opposite because the send button remained gray, the signal now completely gone.

He moved his coffee to the other side of the table as he adjusted the position of his laptop yet again. Two bars appeared, and immediately an email from the investor's office came in.

From: Pierre And Associates.

Subject: Re: Investment Meeting.

His eyes skimmed through the first paragraph, the message clear, he had lost the opportunity. Getting another chance might take another three months, if at all they decide to give him another opportunity.

Frustrated wouldn’t even begin to describe how he was feeling.

Thunder crackled loudly outside, and a loud yelp followed from across the room. He and the other patrons looked at the lady, who seemed slightly embarrassed. He couldn’t tell if she was a local or not with wavy brunette hair and big brown ey-

“What am I doing?” he shook his head and focused on the task at hand. Or at least he tried to. His attention kept straying back to the lady who was now bent over, writing something in her notebook. Honestly? He needed the distraction, but at what cost? Being labelled a creep?

He couldn’t call his mind back to his task, so he settled for subtle glances over his coffee cup while looking outside the window.

He wondered what she was writing with such focus. Then she stopped, looked at what she’d written in what could be interpreted as annoyed disgust and defeat, and then very abruptly, her head was on a free fall, like her neck couldn’t support it any longer, and he watched with shock and amused horror as it connected with the table.

Was she okay? Should he go and check on her? Just then, her head came up, but just as quickly fell to the table again, and again and again, Jesus, she was going to have bruises and a slight concussion if she continued.

Then she jerked upright and began scribbling furiously. Her face cycled through emotions so fast, hope- scribble, scribble. Disgust-rip, crumple. Determination-new page. Defeat- and her head went on a free fall again.

His lips twitched; he shouldn’t find any of this entertaining, and he definitely shouldn’t find her cute, but he couldn’t help it.

Her head stayed down for a few minutes before she stood up and started heading towards his side of the café.

‘Shit, shit, shit,’ had she caught him staring? Was she coming to confront him? But she was simply heading to the toilet stationed on his left, towards the back. He let out a sigh of relief and decided to go back to his work.

“Excuse me.” he nearly knocked over his coffee. She was standing beside him, a strange look on her face. His face was probably beet red, he opened his mouth to apologise, but she bit him to it.

“I saw you watching me from across the room. Aren’t you too cute to be a creep?”

He could swear all the blood in his body was in his face and neck right now. “I’m sorry, I’m not a creep. It’s just…you um…” he cleared his throat, but didn’t know how to continue.

“I checked you out when you walked in, so we’re even.” She plopped down on the chair beside him while he sat in stunned silence.

“What are you working on?” she peeked at the email on the screen, “yikes, looks like work ain’t going well for both of us today, I can’t help with that, but I think you can help with mine.” Was she the same person who had looked embarrassed for yelping?

“I need you to pretend to be a French art thief.”

“What?”

“Right, context.” She dragged her hands through her hair. “I’m a writer-well, trying to be- and I’m stuck on this scene, and you owe me for staring at-“ thunder cracked, she yelped, and her face went red, an embarrassed smile on her face, mumbling a sorry.

“So, what do you say?”

He knew he should turn her down, but every cell in his body felt drawn to her, and then he heard himself say “I’m not French.”

An unladylike snort, “Yeah, no shit. I’m Nora, by the way.”

He was fighting a smile, “Ethan.”

“Not anymore, you shall henceforth be referred to as Jean DuMont, master of ze criminal underworld.” Her French accent was terrible, but he found it endearing.

“Okay, and who might you be?”

“I am an undercover agent, and you’ve just discovered my secret.”

“Alright, so is happening in the scene you’re stuck on?”

She looked genuinely excited that he was playing along, “In this scene, we’re having this tense moment after you’ve just found out my real identity, and we have an argument, but now we are having a heated stare down 2 inches from each other's face with lots of sparks flying.” She was gesturing animatedly.

“Let’s do it.” He wanted to keep that smile on her face for as long as he could.

“Let me get my notebook.” She rushed off to her table to grab her things, and without thinking, he cleared the table to make space for her.

She set her things next to his on the table. “okay Jean DuMont, your next move could change everything…”