Read Chapter 10: The First Kiss, Revised

For four days after the canal, nothing happened.

This was intolerable.

Luc behaved normally. He brought coffee. He complained about a delivery truck. He revised posters for the May programme. He spent two hours answering children's questions about drawing hands and one hour arguing with Clara about whether a badly reviewed novel deserved the front table.

He did not mention the almost-kiss.

Clara did not mention the almost-kiss.

By Wednesday, she had developed an unreasonable hatred of restraint.

That afternoon, a reporter from a British newspaper arrived to interview her about "the revival of independent English-language bookshops in post-Brexit Paris." Clara disliked the phrase but liked free publicity.

The reporter, Sophie Hale, was sharp, friendly, and approximately Clara's age. She asked about Marianne, the shop's finances, the events programme, and why Clara had left London.

"A change of direction," Clara said.

"Personal or professional?"

"Both."

"And Paris?"

Clara glanced toward the staircase door just as Luc came down carrying a box of prints.

Sophie followed her gaze.

"Ah," she said.

"No ah."

"I didn't say anything."

"You said ah."

Luc approached.

Clara introduced them.

Sophie recognised his name immediately. "My sister loves your work. Could I ask you a few questions too? It would give the piece a nice angle—the artist upstairs collaborating with the bookseller."

"She is not a bookseller," Luc said.

Clara looked offended.

He continued, "She is an editor occupying a bookshop. There is a difference."

"And he is not a cartoonist," Clara told Sophie. "Under international law."

Sophie smiled in the manner of a journalist who had just found the paragraph she needed.

The piece went online Friday morning.

The headline was: LOVE LETTER TO A BOOKSHOP: HOW A LONDON EDITOR AND A PARISIAN ARTIST ARE REWRITING A LEFT BANK INSTITUTION.

Clara saw it at 6:42 a.m.

By 7:01 she had received nine messages asking whether she and Luc were together.

By eight, Luc had received more.

He came downstairs holding his phone.

"This is your fault."

"My fault? You told her I was occupying the shop."

"That is objectively true."

"She used the phrase 'sparring with flirtatious ease.'"

"British journalism is unregulated."

"Your photograph is enormous."

"Yours is worse. You are smiling."

Clara stared at him.

Then they both began laughing.

The article brought customers all day.

At six, a woman entered and asked Clara in English, "Is the handsome artist here?"

Clara pointed upstairs without hesitation.

Luc, who had been behind the travel shelf, stepped out.

"Coward," he said.

The woman bought three of his books.

At closing, Clara taped a copy of the article to his door with the words SPARRING FLIRTATIOUSLY SINCE 2026 written across the top.

Ten minutes later, there was a knock at Marianne's flat.

Clara opened the door.

Luc stood on the landing holding the article.

"You have committed defamation again."

"I quoted a reputable newspaper."

"You added the year."

"Fact-checking."

He stepped inside without invitation, still holding the paper.

Clara's flat was less orderly than his. She had moved in with two suitcases and never quite unpacked the second. Marianne's furniture remained: yellow armchair, walnut cabinet, framed theatre posters, an improbable collection of ceramic birds.

Luc looked around.

"You kept everything."

"Mostly."

"Why?"

"I don't know what belongs to me yet."

The answer was more honest than she intended.

Luc put the article on the table.

"Clara."

"Yes?"

"About the canal."

Her pulse accelerated.

"We can pretend it didn't happen," he said.

She looked at him.

"Do you want to?"

"No."

One syllable. No joke.

Clara's mouth went dry.

"Neither do I."

Luc stepped closer.

"But I don't know what you want."

"I don't either."

"That is inconvenient."

"Very."

He was close enough now that she could smell soap and coffee and the cold air from outside.

"I know what I don't want," Clara said.

"What?"

"I don't want a rebound. I don't want to use Paris as a personality transplant. And I don't want to wake up in six months and discover I built another life around someone else's needs."

Luc nodded slowly.

"Reasonable."

"What don't you want?"

"To become important to someone and then punish them for needing me present."

The simplicity of it moved her.

"Also reasonable."

"So we are two reasonable people."

"Terrible basis for romance."

He smiled.

Clara reached for the newspaper between them, crumpled it, and dropped it on the floor.

Then she kissed him.

The first kiss was too fast. Their teeth touched. Clara laughed against his mouth.

"Bad opening," Luc murmured.

"Needs revision."

"Agreed."

The second was slower.

Luc put one hand at her waist, not pulling, simply there. Clara touched the back of his neck. The kiss deepened with a patience that made her more unsteady than urgency would have.

When they separated, neither moved far.

"Better," Luc said.

"Still some structural issues."

"You are never allowed to say that while kissing me."

"Editorial integrity."

He kissed her again to stop her talking.

It worked.

Later, much later, they sat on Marianne's kitchen floor eating biscuits because neither had remembered dinner.

"This changes the noise negotiations," Clara said.

Luc leaned his head back against a cupboard.

"No. Absolutely not."

"Conflict of interest."

"Separate jurisdictions."

"You sound like a lawyer."

"I survived one year."

Clara rested her shoulder against his.

Outside, rain began ticking on the window.

The moment could have frightened her.

Instead, it felt specific. Not a promise, not a rescue, not a new version of herself waiting to be performed.

Just Luc beside her on a kitchen floor, biscuit crumbs on his sweater, arguing about jurisdiction.

For now, specific was enough.