There it is, the National Bank of Paris. The sturdy structure of dark brown bricks stood wedged between a strip mall and a dentist's office, on a broad avenue with maple trees. The sight of it ratcheted up her already painful nervousness, until the butterflies in her stomach threatened to break free.
I can do this. Breanne took a deep breath and walked through the double glass doors.
“Good morning, ma'am,” a young-looking teller with a mop of curly blond hair and huge eyes like a baby doll said from his spot behind the long counter. “May I help you?”
“I'm looking for Nicolas Brassard. Is he in today?” Breanne's heart began to pound as she spoke the words.
“Yes. Take a seat, please. I'll call him.”
Breanne flopped gracelessly in a chair made of bent metal poles with a leather seat slun
