I shifted in bed, trying to find a comfortable position, but despite the silky sheets and a mattress that could’ve easily fit four adults, I couldn’t fall asleep. Sighing, I sat up in bed and rubbed my temples.“Stupid jet lag,” I muttered to myself. I’d even taken a Benadryl, but all it had done was make me feel fuzzy-headed. Gulping down a glass of water, I went to sit in front of the fireplace—no fire, it was the middle of summer, after all—and after turning on a light, tried to read a book.But my brain kept bouncing from subject to subject. After I’d encountered Golden Man, I’d met with Mr. McDonnell.Months ago, Mr. McDonnell had written me a letter to inform me that Grandda had left me more than just the inheritance that had paid for my college education. When I’d written back via email, because this was the twenty-first century after all, Mr. McDonnell had sent his reply once again on actual paper.I didn’t understand his drive to waste money on postage, but per
The next morning, I considered calling Liam to tell him about the stranger in the library but then thought better of it. My older brother was way overprotective. Knowing him, he’d fly straight here to pummel somebody—anybody.Instead, I called Rachel, who’d been my roommate my last two years at Harvard and who now lived in New York City with her girlfriend Maddie. She was one of the most levelheaded people I knew. I could tell her that I’d met five blue aliens and we’d all gotten high on bath salts and eaten our weight in fish and chips, and she wouldn’t bat an eyelash.First of all,I gave her the short version of what I’d learned from Mr. McDonnell about my father and the mysterious clock I was now supposed to search for.“Do you even know what the clock looks like?” said Rachel.I was currently sitting outside, my cup of coffee having already gone cold from the chill wind blowing off of the water. “Um, I have no idea. It’s a clock. I’m assuming it has two hands
The library was large enough that it had more than one entrance. The entrance where I’d worked that afternoon was closer to my bedroom. Opening the door slowly, I peeked my head inside, but it was dark. I strained for any sounds, but once again, all I could hear was the wind.I blew out a breath. I needed to calm down, clearly. I flipped on a lamp on a nearby desk and went to grab the book. It had somehow fallen under the table I’d been working at. I crouched down to retrieve it when I heard a sound.This time, it wasn’t the wind. It was a door opening, but not the one I’d just gone through. As I listened, I heard footsteps and the faint creaking of boards.My heart was hammering. I realized I’d left the desk lamp light on, but if I turned it off now, it would alert the intruder to my presence.And because I was an idiot, apparently, I was too slow to slip out the door, because the footsteps were getting closer to my hiding place. I was now hiding behind an armcha
The following morning, I woke up just as the sun was coming up. I never woke up this early, but I had barely been able to sleep last night after my bizarre conversation with Olivier. I was almost halfway convinced I’d dreamed the entire thing. Yet as I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and put on some pants and a sweater, I knew I hadn’t dreamed it at all.I hurried down to the kitchen. Not just because I desperately needed coffee, but because I needed information. The kitchen was already bustling when I entered. A few people glanced at me, but no one stopped me from coming inside. At this point, the staff knew who I was and either ignored me or occasionally inquired if I needed anything.I looked for red hair, my stomach sinking when I couldn’t find Cara. Instead, Mrs. Walsh stepped out from a walk-in fridge, a hand cocked on her hip. “May I help you, miss?” she said, all crispness.I had to admit, I was impressed at how perfectly ironed her apron was this early and how tightly
Three days later, Olivier and I were off to Paris. He’d tried calling this antiques dealer he’d sold his mother’s beloved clock to, but the number had been disconnected. Despite our best efforts at Googling contact info, all we had was an address in Paris for a tiny antiques shop that might not even still exist.Olivier had assured me he’d take care of booking the flights. Although I’d agreed to him financing this trip, I’ll admit, I’d expected that it would involve him paying for gas as we traveled to and from Dublin, not flying to fucking Paris! I’d told him that I’d find the money for the flight. The last thing I wanted was to feel like I owed him something.But before I’d booked my own ticket, Olivier came into the library to tell me, “I booked our tickets.”My face twitched. “Our? I told you I’d pay for mine.”He shrugged. “You can pay me back if you want.” He looked at his phone. “Five hundred euros.”My jaw dropped. “Jesus Christ, we’re just going to Paris! Did you hire a p
Olivier finally spilled his guts at lunch. We found a little cafe a few blocks from our hotel—it was too early to check in, so we still had our bags with us—and I was currently stuffing my face with pastries and drinking two lattes in a row.The city bustled around us: people walking and talking, cars going by, bicycles cycling past. The sound of French being spoken filled the air, although I heard a lot of English and other languages as well. Nearby was a couple sitting on a bench, both of whom were eating what looked like éclairs. Why hadn’t I ordered an éclair? I needed to do that ASAP.I’d practically stuffed my face with food—a delicious chocolate croissant followed by two different flavored éclairs, coffee flowing freely, and then a platter of macarons and petit fours that were so amazing that I nearly cried.“Are you even listening to me?” Olivier cocked his head to the side.“What was this again?” I held up a bun filled with some kind of preserves.“Brioche.” His lips twit
“I think it might be closed,” I said.“The windows are boarded up. Of course it’s closed.” Olivier, for his part, kept trying to peer through the small spaces between the wooden boards hammered to the windows. Like he’d be able to see someone inside. But he was so agitated, I wasn’t about to tell him as much.“Shit,” said Olivier. “Shit, shit, shit.”I yawned. “Yeah, pretty much.”We’d taken a taxi across Paris to find this antiques shop, the address of which Olivier had on a small piece of paper in his pocket. Despite both of our attempts to find the address on Google Maps, Google kept trying to redirect us to some random spot that turned out to be a broken-down bridge on the Seine.So we’d had to wander around on foot. Olivier had stopped to ask for directions—which made me grateful that he spoke French, but I wouldn’t tell him that, no way—but we got a lot of confused expressions. One man told us we were in the wrong part of Paris entirely. Another woman said that we were
“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