“Then maybe I’ll head back to the palace and not take you to Paris for the weekend,” I say nonchalantly as I stand, resecuring the button on my suit jacket.
“Paris?” she shrieks, scrambling to her feet, letters falling onto the ground around her. “Did you say you’re taking me to Paris?”
“I was thinking about it. Ya know, give you an immersive experience after all your French lessons. But you’re right,” I continue in a forced serious tone. “I should absolutely go back to work.”
“No!” She flings her arms around me, squeezing me tightly, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Take me to Paris!”
I chuckle, placing my hand on her back and pulling her closer. “If that’s what you wish, my lady.”
She looks at me, smiling brightly. “Oh, it is. It really, really is.”
I lower my mouth to hers, our lips skimming. “Then let’s go to Paris.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Nora
Paris. I’m in fucking Paris. Home of the Notre-Dame Cathedral, the Arc d’ Triumph, and the Eiffel Tower.
Of croissants and eclairs.
Of love.
For as long as I can remember, this has been a dream of mine, but it always seemed so unattainable. Hunter and I had discussed coming here after our wedding. Then I got pregnant, so our Paris honeymoon was changed to something not so far away.
When I met Jeremy, he promised to eventually take me, too, but something always came up. After we divorced, I considered coming here as part of my divor-cation, the term my friends and I used to refer to a honeymoon for a divorcée.
Instead, they insisted I take the trip along Route 66 I was supposed to do with Hunter. Fulfill the promise I made his parents that I’d spread his ashes along the route. Which was where I met Anderson.
It’s funny how life works sometimes. I may have foregone my trip to Paris to finally say goodbye to the ghosts of my past. But in doing so, I found my way to Paris anyway.
“What do you think, ma chèrie?” Anderson asks as we stroll along the Seine, the setting sun casting a magical glow over the city that’s still alive with a mixture of locals and tourists.
The Eiffel Tower reaches for the heavens before us, Notre-Dame Cathedral behind us, romance surrounding us. Artists sit along the river, hard at work at capturing whatever catches their eye. We even passed several couples dancing along the promenade. This city truly is romance personified.
“It’s even more beautiful than I imagined. The perfect weekend getaway.”
Since we arrived earlier today after a flight that lasted less than an hour, Anderson showed me a few of his favorite spots around the city.
The Sacre-Coeur Basilica atop the hill in Montmartre, which has one of the most amazing views of Paris.
Rue de la Paix, with all its exquisite shopping, where we struggled to resist the temptation whenever we saw anything baby related, since we still need to keep that a secret.
The Pantheon, where some of the greatest French minds are buried — Rousseau, Voltaire, Dumas.
And Pere Lachaise Cemetery, where we paid our respects to Héloïse and Abelard, the famous star-crossed lovers who were forced to carry out their love through letters.
“There’s nothing like Paris,” he admits, his own eyes alight with a renewed energy.
I wasn’t the only one who needed this little getaway. He did, too. While we’ve made an effort to spend more time with each other these past few weeks, Anderson rarely attending any engagements in the evening unless I’m with him, life behind the proverbial palace walls can still be exhausting, especially with the wedding in just two weeks.
It’s been refreshing to be a normal couple. Granted, a few people have recognized us as we explored the city, a team of plain-clothes protective officers flanking us. But we haven’t been chased by the paparazzi, who seem to have become obsessed with capturing our every movement back home.
“My dad always dreamed of coming here,” I murmur absentmindedly as a breeze wraps around me and kicks up a scent that can only be described as Paris — food, history, and love.
“You were five when he died, correct?” Anderson asks, his voice hesitant.
Throughout our relationship, I haven’t spoken of my dad in any detail. Doing that would inevitably lead to my mother, which is always a touchy subject.
“I can’t remember much about him, especially since he was still active military and was on deployment quite a bit, but I do remember that. Promised that one day, when we had enough money, he’d take me.”
“I’m sorry he was never able to.”
“Don’t be.” I shrug. “My father taught me how to dream. Here was someone who came from nothing. Literally. He had no one.”
He tilts his head, his interest piqued as I speak of this man who’s remained a mystery to him most of our relationship. “What do you mean?”
“His parents were addicts. He was neglected a lot growing up. Most of the time, the only meal he ate during the day was the lunch the school provided. When school was on break, he either had to steal food or hope one of his teachers felt bad enough for him that they’d drop off something.”
“Why didn’t the authorities get involved? If his parents weren’t feeding him, were neglecting him…”
“I don’t know. I only learned this from my brothers and a few of the members in his unit who stayed in touch with us.”
He nods. “And they’re all much older than you, correct? Your brothers, I mean.”
“Charlie’s seven years older, Michael’s eight, and Joshua’s ten. Because of the age difference, I always felt like an only child.
“Anyway, my dad could have very easily followed in his parents’ footsteps, started doing drugs, repeating the cycle.”
“But he didn’t,” Anderson remarks.
“No. Thanks to his French teacher.”
His eyes widen. “His French teacher?”
“Why does that surprise you?”
“I could see a football coach getting him on the right path, but a French teacher? It’s just unusual.”
“Well, his French teacher was also his wrestling coach, so you’re not totally off-base.” I wink. “My dad grew up in a small town in rural North Carolina that consisted of maybe 2,000 people, so culture wasn’t high on their list of priorities. Hell, most people in town had lived there since birth. Had probably never ventured too far away from the town line. So his French class was my father’s first exposure to a different culture. An eye-opening experience to a world outside the one he’d been living. That became his dream. His motivation to do whatever it took to get out of that small town and not repeat the cycle.”
“So he joined the military.”
“It was the only way out for him.”
A silence passes between us. Then he glances my way. “How did he meet your mother?”
I smile nostalgically. When I first heard their love story, I thought it was beautiful, the kind of story we all hope to have.
Unfortunately, their happily ever after was short-lived.
“At a funeral.”
“A…funeral?”
I nod. “When my father left town for boot camp, he swore he’d never come back. Until he learned his French teacher had passed away. So he requested leave and went home to pay his respects. His teacher’s name was James Harcourt. His daughter’s name is Elaine.”