Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Finally, we reach the Notre Dame gardens. Even in its sad and damaged state, the cathedral holds a kind of solemn beauty that cannot be denied. The charred and skeletal upper sections contrast sharply with the manicured lawns and flowerbeds below, creating a surreal, almost poetic juxtaposition.
We wander among the gardens, the soft crunch of gravel underfoot, passing fountains that glint in the sunlight. The ruined façade rises above us, quiet and monumental, a testament to resilience. I feel a shiver at the stark beauty, the quiet strength as I glance at Axel. He’s studying the cathedral as intently as I am, but turns to me when he catches me looking at him.
“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” I whisper.
He steps closer, brushing a strand of hair back from my face. “It is,” he says softly. “It is the nature of the world. Nothing is forever, so every moment is precious.”
My breath catches, and I feel a strange warmth spread through me. Confused, I glance away and pretend to look at a rosebush.
We wander to a bench beneath a row of linden trees, the dappled sunlight falling in patches on the gravel. I sit down, savoring the quiet serenity of the moment, the way the city feels suspended around us. Axel sits beside me, close enough that our thighs touch lightly, and the contact sends a thrill through me. Axel stretches one arm along the back of the bench behind me. Not touching me. Just resting close enough for me to feel the heat from his skin. Casual in a kind of possessive way that I must admit to liking.
“So,” he says, watching a little boy chase pigeons with ruthless determination. “Explain something to me.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“These street names.” He gestures vaguely behind us. “Rue du Chat-qui-Pêche. Street of the Fishing Cat. Who names things like that?”
I grin. “It’s charming.”
“It’s unhinged.”
“It’s poetic,” I counter. “Imagine living on a street named after a fishing cat. That’s infinitely better than living on, say, Industrial Estate Road.”
He huffs a reluctant laugh. “You’re such a romantic.”
“You like that about me.”
His eyes flick to mine. “I do.”
The way he says it, quiet, certain with no trace of his usual teasing smile, makes something inside of me stir, almost like a warning. Careful, Jo. You’re going where you’ve never gone before. A breeze lifts a few strands of my hair, and he reaches out and catches the loose strands. His fingers brush my cheek as he tucks my hair behind my ear. It’s such a small thing, but somehow, here with him, it feels enormous. Like we’re a couple!
“So,” I say, because if I don’t fill the spaces I might drown in it. “What was your street called growing up?”
“Rhodes Drive.”
“That’s aggressively normal.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you grow up in New York?” I ask.
“Mm, in Brooklyn,” he says with a nod. “My mom and I shared a tiny brownstone with her two sisters. It was chaos with too many cousins and loud Sunday dinners. My grandmother always came for Sunday dinner, and she believed silence meant someone was plotting something. And what she said went.”
I laugh. “She sounds terrifying.”
“She was five feet two and ruled the roost with a wooden spoon.”
“I respect her already.”
He smiles at that, and it softens him in a way I don’t think many people get to see. The sharp edges ease. The perpetual calculation behind his eyes gives way to softness.
“What about you?” he asks. “London girl. What was your empire like?”
“Not an empire by any stretch of the imagination.” I tuck my hands into the sleeves of my cardigan. “I grew up in a semi-detached house in Richmond. We had a small garden where my mum tried to encourage me to grow herbs we would never use. Naturally, I resisted and spent most of my time inside.”
“Reading.”
“Obviously.”
“Obviously,” he echoes.
“I used to line my books up by height,” I admit. “Not genre. Not author. Not even series. Height.”
He stares at me. “I guess you would be an interior designer’s dream client.”
“It is aesthetically pleasing.”
“It’s kinda psychotic.”
“Maybe a little,” I admit with a laugh.
A group of teenagers passes us, talking loudly in French, one of them licking an ice cream that’s melting faster than he can manage. I watch the dripping ice cream with mild concern.
“What’s your favorite flavor?” he asks suddenly. “When you’re not being forced to be bold.”
“In life or in ice cream?”
“Let’s do the ice cream first.”
I pretend to consider although I really don’t need to. “Pistachio. It’s underrated. Subtle. A little unexpected.”
“It’s dangerously close to toothpaste.”
“Mint chocolate chip is the toothpaste one.”
“You’re banned from ice cream selections from now on.”
We laugh outright at that, the sound warm and completely unguarded.
“And in life?” he presses.
I trace the grain of the wooden bench with my fingertip.
“I like things that look ordinary but aren’t. Paintings people dismiss until you step closer and realize the brush work is genius. Buildings with ugly facades and beautiful interiors. People who don’t advertise everything they are on the first meeting.”