“Thank you,” Diana said. The waitress left, and she tore off a piece of the croissant and popped it in her mouth. It was still warm, flaky, buttery, and absolutely delicious.

So maybe things were looking up.

As she stared at the address, she couldn’t help wondering . . . was Stéphane there? Would he be at the ball? Would he remember her?

No, as much as she’d tried to tell herself she hadn’t come here for him, part of her couldn’t help wondering, wanting to make good on that promise she’d made to him all those years ago. And perhaps he was at that house, alone, and thinking of her too. If they were indeed meant for each other, then it was only natural.

And I’m here for adventure, she thought, gobbling down the last of the croissant. So it’s about time I had one. Right now.

*

Oh, I’ve totally blown my itinerary out of the water.

That’s what Diana thought as she walked down Rue Madame, balancing her trusty travel umbrella in one hand and rolling her bag on the cracked sidewalk behind her with the other. Every so often, it’d get caught in a rut, and she’d have to pull it free.

After she traversed the Seine, over a rather large bridge that didn’t look anything like the quaint ones she’d seen in photographs, she came across the Paris she’d dreamed of. Little outdoor cafes with tables behind dainty wrought-iron fences. Tiny shops—like a little housewares shop that sold the most adorable gingham-check kitchen ensemble and a bookstore full of old volumes called Shakespeare and Company.

She passed several well-dressed well-to-do people on the street, but nobody even looked at her, much less greeted her. Not very much different from New York, and yet for some reason, she’d expected more.

This section of town was clearly swanky with fences around the trees lining the streets and stately homes with marble facades, all lined together, shoulder to shoulder. There were iron benches and streetlamps at healthy intervals, and, every once in a while, the line of buildings would break to allow for an ivy-covered gate, a narrow passage along a crumbling cobbled path to a wildly romantic hidden courtyard, perhaps.

She stopped when she reached the address on Google, and stared up at the door, which had at oval-shaped window on the center. It stood behind an imposing iron gate.

But that was the only thing regal about it.

Because most of it was, simply . . . gone.

She checked the address again, then once more. This couldn’t be right.

The whole building had been ripped down, almost to the studs. It was just a rusting skeleton standing upon a pile of white rubble. It had been completely gutted. There was a sign in one of the holes that had once been a window that said Blanchette Construction.

Whoever had once lived there, decades ago, clearly wasn’t living there now.

Well, it had been nearly thirty years ago. He could be anywhere now. In fact, maybe he wasn’t even alive anymore.