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)
He laughs softly. “Not words. Observation.”
We drift past the Île Saint-Louis, the place we wandered through earlier. From the water, the narrow streets look delightfully quaint, the rooftops stacked like careful brush strokes, ivy clinging to walls, tiny balconies spilling with brightly colored flowers. I point out the little ice cream shop where we’d just been, and his eyes light up.
“You figured it out,” he says, his voice warm.
“Of course,” I reply, grinning. “How can I forget the place where I met lavender ice-cream?”
The boat slows near the Pont Neuf, and I watch as pedestrians cross above, oblivious to our little floating boat. I can see the cafés where the morning bustle has begun, the clink of cups against saucers and the murmur of conversation carried on the wind. It’s magical, surreal, and utterly Parisian.
Axel leans toward me under the pretense of pointing out a gargoyle on a bridge. His body brushes mine, and I feel the faintest heat at the contact.
“See that?” he murmurs. “That kind of craftsmanship is gone.”
I glance at it, nodding, but my eyes keep flicking to him. “Yup,” I agree, letting my tone match his, intimate, soft, teasing.
He smiles, clearly noticing my distraction. “You’re not really looking at the gargoyle, are you?”
“Maybe not entirely,” I admit, laughing softly.
“Good,” he murmurs. His hand brushes mine again, lingering just a fraction longer than a casual brush would entail. “Because I’m not really looking either.”
My heart twists in a way I can’t quite name. The boat passes Pont Marie, the elegant arches reflected in the water, and Axel points out a small café on the quay below.
“I bet that’s the kind of place you’d pick,” he says, eyes teasing. “Hidden, charming, full of character.”
I grin. “You think you know me so well, don’t you?”
“Am I right?” he asks softly, brushing the hair whipping around my face.
I feel warmth spread through me, dizzying and comforting all at once. “Attention can be dangerous,” I murmur.
“Not if it’s the right kind,” he whispers.
The boat rounds a bend near the Île de la Cité, and I catch the light glinting off the buildings, the water shimmering around us in flecks of silver and gold. The reflection of the city feels like magic beneath us, an endless painting moving with the waves. Axel leans closer, shoulder brushing the side of my breasts, and I’m acutely aware of every subtle movement, every shared glance.
We talk about everything and nothing; how the Seine has inspired painters for centuries, the little quirks of Parisian architecture, our favorite art and books, the stories we’ve never told anyone else. There’s laughter, teasing, a brush of fingers over a shared railing, and I feel the hours slipping by without us noticing. At one point, Axel points out a tiny rooftop garden on a building above the quay.
“I bet the person who lives there loves that they wake up to this every day,” he says. “Can you imagine?”
I nod, smiling. “I can. And I bet they’re secretly jealous of us, floating by like this.”
He laughs, a low, rich sound. “If I were him, I too would be jealous of a man who has such a beautiful boating companion.”
My chest tightens, and I let my fingers linger in his.
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
JO
The morning has slipped by, the Seine and the river cruise leaving a warm, quiet buzz in my chest, the kind that makes me feel like I have stumbled into a dream. Axel guides me through the streets toward Le Comptoir du Relais. The late morning sun is soft and golden on the narrow pavements, warming the stones. The smell of fresh coffee drifts from cafés we pass, mingling with faint exhaust fumes from distant scooters.
The restaurant itself is classic Paris, small, intimate, and bustling in a charming, je ne sais quoi kind of way. The terrace is a cluster of tiny iron tables and chairs, pressed close together, each with a little vase holding a single rose bloom. Patrons chatter in a melodic mix of French and foreign languages, as waiters weave expertly through the tables, balancing plates and glasses. I glance at the façade, orange brick and cream with striped awnings in soft burgundy, and I feel a thrill at how perfect the scene feels, how Parisian.
This whole trip has been a dream.
Because of Axel.
Axel pulls out the chair for me, and I slide into it, brushing against his hand. The contact sparks that familiar zing, making me aware of the warmth of his arm so close to mine. Our butts are barely on the seats when a waiter approaches and asks for our drink order. We ask for a couple of glasses of white wine, and he nods and scurries away, returning quickly with two large glasses of white wine. I taste mine and find it to be tangy and refreshing. The waiter takes our food order, and he’s off again.