Midnight in Montmartre

s, 2

ousand love stories. Élodie Dubois clutched her violin case like a lifeline, her breath fogging the ai

positions "as lively as a funeral march." The words still burned behind her eyelids. But the weight

curling up his neck, slid her a whiskey without asking

ses catching on the glass. She'd bar

liced through the smoke, a melody so raw it made her ribs ache. On the dim-lit stage, a man with i

rmured. "Luca Moretti. Plays lik

ved up to reveal a faded tattoo of a bird in flight. His music was

h

A ripple

hit the count

bres, the symphony she'd been laboring over fo

er eyed her

my music," s

hat one only plays originals. Ca

old-flecked-and locked onto hers.

e, slower this time, teasi

her ears. Without thinking,

playing, but his brow furrowed. Up close, she could see the scar cu

ounterpoint," she sai

beats, the room

e answe

ng the hollows he'd left like they were spaces meant for her. Luca's lips

hed him, no

know how he'd stolen her melody, but now she was stealing it

is mouth with the back of his hand. "You're Élodie Dubois," he sa

" she shot back, but

Guilty. But you just stole m

ed Luca on the shoulder. "You two f

y scribbling an address on a cocktail napkin. "Rehear

, leaving only the echo of his saxophone