Perfect Strangers

Chapter One: The City of Broken Hearts

Grace Mitchell pressed her forehead against the cold airplane window and watched Paris materialize through the clouds like a watercolor painting coming to life. The Eiffel Tower stood proud against the gray December sky, and the Seine wound through the city like a silver ribbon. It should have felt magical. Instead, it felt like a cruel joke.

Three weeks ago, she'd imagined this moment differently. She'd pictured herself squeezing Daniel's hand as they descended, whispering about all the croissants they'd eat and the wine they'd drink. She'd imagined walking along the Seine at sunset, stealing kisses beneath the twinkling lights of the Christmas markets.

Instead, Daniel was probably in their—his—apartment in Chicago, already moved on with the colleague he'd sworn was "just a friend." And Grace was flying solo to her best friend's wedding, armed with nothing but a carry-on full of carefully chosen outfits and a heart that still felt like it had been put through a paper shredder.

"First time in Paris?" The elderly woman beside her had a kind smile and an unmistakable British accent.

"Second, actually." Grace managed a small smile. "Came for a semester abroad in college. This time I'm here for a wedding."

"How lovely! Your own?"

Grace's laugh came out more bitter than she intended. "No. My best friend's. I'm just the maid of honor."

"Just?" The woman patted her hand. "There's no 'just' about it. Being there for the people we love—that's everything, isn't it?"

Grace nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. The woman was right. Sophie Beaumont—soon to be Sophie Marchand—had been her roommate freshman year at Northwestern, her partner in crime through countless late nights and bad decisions, and the person who'd held her while she sobbed into a pint of ice cream three weeks ago. Grace would walk through fire for Sophie. She could certainly manage a week in Paris, even if every romantic corner of the city felt like salt in her wounds.

The plane touched down at Charles de Gaulle, and Grace gathered her things with a deep breath. New year, new start. That was going to be her mantra for the next week. She would celebrate Sophie's happiness, drink excellent champagne, and absolutely not think about the fact that she was thirty-one, newly single, and watching everyone around her find their person while she remained stubbornly, persistently alone.

The arrivals hall was chaos—families reuniting, couples embracing, everyone seeming to have someone waiting for them. Grace scanned the crowd for Sophie's familiar blonde head, but instead spotted a sign with her name on it, held by a driver in a neat black suit.

"Mademoiselle Mitchell?" He took her bag with a polite nod. "Madame Beaumont sent me. She apologizes—there was a crisis with the flowers."

"Of course there was." Grace grinned. Sophie's mother, Claudette, had been planning this wedding like a military campaign for eighteen months. A flower crisis was practically a Tuesday.

The drive into the city was everything Grace remembered and more. Paris in winter had a particular magic—the bare trees strung with lights, the cafés spilling warmth onto the sidewalks, the way the gray sky made the cream-colored buildings glow. By the time the car pulled up to the elegant hotel in the Marais district, Grace felt something loosening in her chest. Maybe this week wouldn't be so bad after all.

Sophie was waiting in the lobby, practically vibrating with excitement. She launched herself at Grace before she'd even fully stepped through the door.

"You're here! You're actually here!" Sophie pulled back, her blue eyes bright with tears. "I can't believe you're here."

"Where else would I be?" Grace hugged her tight. "You're getting married in four days. Wild horses couldn't keep me away."

"How are you? Really?" Sophie's expression shifted to concern. "I've been worried. You sounded so sad on the phone last week."

"I'm fine." Grace waved a hand. "This week is about you, not about my disaster of a love life. Tell me everything. How's François? How's your mom? Is she driving everyone insane yet?"

"François is perfect, my mother is impossible, and I'm so glad you're here to help me survive the next four days." Sophie linked her arm through Grace's. "Come on, let me show you to your room. We have the rehearsal dinner tonight, and I need you looking fabulous. My brother's flying in from London, and I want to show off my gorgeous American friends."

"Wait, Oliver's coming?" Grace frowned. She'd heard stories about Sophie's older brother over the years—a serious, successful architect who lived in London and rarely made time for family events. "I thought he never came to anything."

"He doesn't, usually. But this is my wedding, and I guilted him mercilessly." Sophie grinned. "Fair warning: he can be a bit... much. Very British, very proper, very 'I have opinions about everything and I'm going to share them whether you want me to or not.'"

"Sounds delightful."

"He means well. He's just not great with people. Or fun. Or spontaneity." Sophie laughed. "You'll probably hate each other, actually. You're complete opposites."

"Can't wait," Grace said dryly.

Her room was beautiful—high ceilings, tall windows overlooking a courtyard, a bed piled with white linens that looked like a cloud. Grace unpacked her carefully chosen dresses, touched up her makeup, and tried not to think about how Daniel would have loved this hotel, this city, this adventure they were supposed to have together.

New year, new start, she reminded herself. And she grabbed her clutch and headed down to face the rehearsal dinner.