Page 22 of She's Like the Wind

Maybe it was wanting to honor my parents, who loved me.

Maybe I just needed to prove that the girl no one rooted for could build a good life.

I stumbled into Aire Noire the way most beautiful things in my life have happened—unexpectedly.

I’d been hired part-time to help with the window displays and the weekend rush. The owner, Madame Marguerite, was a sharp, elegant woman who wore red lipstick like it was armor and had a wicked sense of humor under her couture. She taught me the art of pairing lingerie, not just by size or color but by mood.

When she decided to retire three years later, she pulled me aside and said,“You’ve got good bones,mon coeur. You see women the way they want to be seen.”

She could’ve sold the building to a developer or folded entirely. Instead, she gave me a deal I could just barely manage—one that only made sense if you factored in faith.

I took it. Never regretted it.

For the first year, I ran the shop for her. By the second, I’d scraped together enough money to buy her out, and she gave it to me for a steal. Now, I rented the store and my apartment from Madame Marguerite, who was somewhere in Cannes, sipping Kir Royals and living her best life.

Someday, I dreamed of buying the building from her.

We ended up at Fives, the bar just off Jackson Square, tucked beside a tourist store that sold aprons that said: “It’s not going to shuck itself,” and an array of packaged spices to take home and try a hand at making authentic jambalaya.

The best thing about Fives was that they liberally offered happy hour rates to some of us locals. It was moody and cozy with a wraparound bar. All four of us settled on comfortable barstools as we said hello to our friend Clayton, who worked there.

“What’s up, baby?” He leaned over and kissed Simone’s cheek.

“Jules here was an honorable mention at the Stella Screaming contest,” Simone gushed.

“No kidding!”

Clayton gave Jules a drink on the house.

“Thanks, man,” Jules said with mock seriousness.

He held up the glass like it was an award and gave his victory speech, “I’d like to thank Mr. Marlon Brando and bourbon,andSimone, my darling, for helping me reach this pinnacle of success.”

We cheered him.

We ordered a couple dozen oysters and a bottle of champagne.

I felt light in my heart.

Yes, I was going to be okay, I thought, suddenly feeling deliciously happy.

I took a sip of champagne, still musing over everything, when my eyes landed on the man responsible for my sleepless nights.

Gage!

My breath hitched.

Just like that, the sweet buzz of happiness curdled, turning sharp and sour, like champagne left too long in the sun until it tasted more like vinegar than celebration.

He was at a high table in the back with a guy I didn’t recognize—tall, dark-skinned, well-dressed in a way that said money but didn’t scream it.

Gage looked relaxed. Smiling. He hadn’t seen me.

The universe was messing with me!

But then again, I wasn’t surprised to bump into him. This city was a thousand winding streets and still small as a coin when it came to fate.

“Do we need to leave?” Aurelie asked gently, sliding her gaze toward him.