Chapter 10

“He says it’s the right phone number,” said Olivier in exasperation. He returned to speaking French with the shopkeeper, a middle-aged man with his hair parted right down the middle and smoothed down with an excessive amount of hair gel.

We’d returned to the bookshop where Olivier had gotten the phone number yesterday. Apparently, the shop owner was insisting that the number was correct. I could see Olivier getting frustrated, mostly that the man didn’t seem inclined to double-check.

I began to wander through the aisles of books. Most of them were in French, obviously, but I found the small section of English books. Most of the selection consisted of French authors translated into English, along with various classics. At the bottom of the shelf, though, were a handful of romance novels—in English, no less. 

I pulled out a historical romance by a favorite author of mine. I hadn’t read this one, and I’d already finished the one romance I’d brought with me. I was a total bore and