“You found him,” he says, simple and clear.
Yeah. I did.
Too bad I can’t have him.
“Anyway, thanks for listening. I just wanted you to know that when I said I was glad it was you, I’m really glad it was you.”
He’s quiet for a long beat, blowing out a breath. “Je ne regrette rien.”
I don’t know French, but I understand context clues. “I regret nothing,” I translate.
“Oui,” he says, then nods to my empty cup. “Do you need another?”
I’m grateful for the shift in mood. “I want to explore the city today, so I think I do,” I say.
Finn calls the waiter over and, as promised, orders in French. When the waiter leaves, I narrow my eyes. “That was unfair.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because you sound sexy even ordering in your bullshit French.”
He laughs. “Maybe I was trying to impress you.”
“It worked.” I take a moment to soak in the atmosphere, the vibe of the hilly neighborhood. Across the street is a boutique with Les Jolies Jupes scrolled across a window display of short dresses and trendy ankle boots. Beside that, a narrow staircase with a wrought-iron railing. Posters line the brick wall, advertising the Moulin Rouge. This was on my list too—just soaking in the ambiance.
“Have you been here before?” Finn asks.
I turn back to him, shaking my head. “First time. But I’ve wanted to come here. I planned out many fictional visits.”
“What do you think so far? Does this compare to the trips you took in your mind?”
I pause for a few seconds, tapping my chin playfully. “I think I need to see more of the city to draw a conclusion. And I’m pretty busy the rest of the week…”
I don’t want to presume he’ll join me. His words were clear at McCoy’s in Manhattan. His actions, too, the next time I saw him at the bookstore. Even if he held my hand minutes ago, that doesn’t mean he’ll spend the day with me.
The furrow in his brow and the intensity in his eyes tell me he’s debating something. Then he’s decided. “I’d love to show you the Luxembourg Gardens.”
This man can read my soul. “I want to go there,” I whisper.
“I know, Jules,” he says in a throaty voice. “I know.”
21
A KISS MEMORY
Jules
The lush green gardens overwhelm me as soon as we step through the gate. It’s a pinwheel of nature’s colors. Rich yellows, glorious oranges, ruby reds. The scent of flowers—maybe poppies, possibly petunias—wafts through the air.
This is my favorite thing, flowers and gardens, and it should be a wonderland here, with its paths and ponds and curves.
But right now, the tourist attraction outside the Latin Quarter is stuffed, sardine-like, with people. It’s clattering with the noise of couples sprawled out on blankets on the lawn, eating cheese and drinking wine while playing music from their phones. Children shriek and chase balloons while tired parents tug on dirty hands. Tourists trudge by with phones, snapping photos and buying souvenirs from carts.
It’s thoroughly lovely but completely overrun.
I’m a jerk for thinking this, so I don’t say it. “Gorgeous,” I say, squinting like I can block out everyone else and keep these gardens all for me. Maybe that makes me terribly selfish.
“Yes, but it’d be better if the gardens were closed just for us,” Finn says, a tease of a smirk crooking his lips.
“I was thinking the same thing,” I admit, relieved we’re on the same page. “I wish it were quieter so I could just…enjoy it the way I want to.”
“And what way is that?”
“Sniffing all the flowers. Then pretending it’s my own private garden,” I say.
“That’s fair. And honestly, a damn good fantasy,” he says.
“It feels selfish, but I was picturing it that way,” I say as we weave through the midday crowds, passing a couple of boys operating remote-control sailboats in a pond.
“It’s funny—I think there’s this idea of certain places being perfect. Fantasy places. Paris, Rome, London, Tokyo, the Greek isles. Then you go to them and sometimes it can be disappointing.”
“Are you disappointed?” I ask. I don’t want him to be bored. Even if we both wished for a little more solitude, I still don’t want him to wish he were someplace else.
“No. Not at all. And never with the company.”
He takes a beat, those eyes journeying up and down my body then lingering on my face. “It’s just…a place can be that way, don’t you think?”
“A thing can be that way,” I agree, soaking in the too-busy atmosphere as we wander deeper into the gardens. “You hype it up in your mind. But I’m glad I’m here. Just because something isn’t perfect doesn’t mean I don’t want to see it.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re here too.”
I try not to read anything more into that comment, but I do let myself enjoy its possibilities.
As we walk along a path beside a huge expanse of lawn, Finn moves closer, the faint remnants of his cologne teasing my nose.
“What’s yours? Your cologne, I mean.” He was so insistent to know mine, and his fire and orchids fill my mind.
“Midnight Dreams,” he replies without skipping a beat.
“Mmm. Now I’ll be sniffing it at department stores and thinking of you when I drift off to sleep.”
“That’s too alluring an image, Jules.”
“It sure is.”
He doesn’t hold my hand or touch me, but his voice feels like sensual fingers caressing my neck when he says, “I bet we can find a place here that lives up to your dreams.”
And I do read into that comment. Or, really, my body does, since I get this buzzy, lovely feeling when I’m with him. “All right, you’re on. Find a place,” I dare him.
He tilts his head, an appreciative grin on his lips. “You doubt me?”
“Maybe I do,” I say playfully. I think he likes the challenge.
“Jules, you know that only makes me want to prove you wrong.”
“Fine. Go. Prove me wrong.”
“All right let’s try the Medici Fountain,” he says, like he just had that suggestion in his back pocket.
I nudge him with my elbow. “You tricked me. You told me you didn’t know the city that well.”
“Hmm. Did I say that? Or did I simply say I’d only been here for work?”
“Fine, you caught me on a technicality.”
“In any case, I have only been here for work, but I read all about Paris on the flight and over the last few days. I wanted to be prepared,” he says.
And damn, that’s fire. That sort of preparation. “Just for the show?”
“Yes. I want to be able to speak knowledgeably about the city with my marketing partners who work here. And that means knowing Paris.”
Why do smart men have to be so sexy? Oh right, because using your brain is hot. I don’t really need more reasons to be attracted to this man I can’t have, and yet, Finn Adams has given me another one.