Two Nights in Paris Page 8

  Roselle didn’t know why, but she pulled the sheet up to her chin.

  He arched an eyebrow, amusement gracing his features. “I’ve seen and touched everything.”

  She laughed, nestling against the fluffy pillows. “I know. I don’t know why I’m doing this.”

  She would never look at his mouth or fingers the same ever again. She’d always remember how he traced the lines of her body with each digit and his lips—goodness—the pleasure they evoked.

  Stephan joined her in the bed and lay on his side, facing her. “Tired? Ready to go to sleep?”

  Roselle shook her head.

  “No? Then tell me what you want,” he whispered.

  “You. I want you again.”

  “Me, huh?” He traced the edge of her bottom lip with his finger. “Interesting, because I want you again, too.”

  Amazingly, after two orgasms, she still warmed to the thought of making love to him again. Stephan eased closer and kissed her lips.

  “Every part of you is delicious,” he said huskily.

  She bit her lip, blushing, and he chuckled.

  Taking her wrist, he rolled onto his back and pulled her on top of him. The heat of his growing erection warmed her inner thigh, and she rubbed her aching sex against it to alleviate the mushrooming throb of desire.

  Overcoming her shyness, she kissed him fully—harder, greedier. He sucked on her chin and licked the underside of her neck, and when his hands slid beneath the sheet and cupped her butt cheeks, she was lost.

  Chapter 12

  “Brace yourself. You are about to go on the greatest sightseeing tour of your life. It’s going to be memorable. Epic,” Stephan said, as they strolled to the metro station.

  His clothes consisted simply of jeans and a tan, short-sleeved pullover, but on Stephan, they looked like designer wear. Roselle had brushed her hair into a sleek ponytail and was dressed in a pair of khaki capris, a white shirt, and flats.

  “I appreciate the lack of hyperbole,” she quipped.

  “Smart ass.” He swatted her on the behind, and she came to a full stop, staring at him with wide eyes.

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Why not? You let me do it last night,” he said with a sly grin.

  “That was different,” she said in a low voice as if people were nearby listening to them, instead of going about their business.

  Walking backward, Stephan said, “We have a lot of ground to cover today. Hurry up before we miss the train, woman.”

  She ran to catch up with him.

  This morning they ate breakfast at a nearby cafe. He didn’t say what she was thinking, that they shouldn’t have had sex last night. They simply pretended that it was normal. Maybe for Paris, this was normal. She still felt him everywhere, all over. As if he were still on top of her and blanketing her skin.

  Since Paris and its suburbs covered a large area, Stephan suggested they use the city’s rapid transit system, saying it was an excellent way to sightsee and add another piece to the Paris experience, which Roselle happily agreed to.

  They took the subway to the first stop, the Louvre, the world’s largest art museum—so huge it would take months to see all the exhibits. Instead of going through the famous pyramid entrance and having to stand in the long line, Stephan took her through a lesser-known entrance, into an underground shopping mall where they were able to enter the museum within minutes. Using a map, they established a game plan and spent time browsing through Egyptian antiquities and Islamic art.

  Then, of course, they had to stop at the Mona Lisa by Leonardo da Vinci. The iconic painting hung on a wall by itself, protected by bullet-proof glass. A crowd of tourists gazed up at it, many of them snapping photos and selfies to share with friends or social media followers.

  “It’s smaller than I expected,” Roselle whispered.

  “It’s thirty inches by twenty-one inches. You want a photo?” Stephan whispered back.

  She nodded and handed over her phone, then posed with one hand on her hip, head tilted to the side, and her best smile. She waited as Stephan stared at the screen, his expression unreadable. It was as if he’d forgotten to take the photo—forgotten she was standing there, though he was looking at her image.

  “Are you going to take the picture or not?” she asked.

  He glanced up as if she’d caught him off guard. “Calm down.” He snapped several photos and then showed her the lot.

  Roselle examined the pictures. She looked like a woman who didn’t have a care in the world, and that’s exactly how she felt at the moment.

  “You like them?” Stephan asked.

  “Yeah, I like them.” A faint pulse of pain entered her chest. This happiness—this joy that she was experiencing, would probably end when they flew back to Atlanta.

  “You want one?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I’ve been here before. I took photos standing in front of the Mona Lisa years ago.”

  They continued to browse the exhibits, but after a while, Roselle grew tired, and Stephan suggested they take a break and eat at a brasserie a couple of streets over from the usual tourist haunts. Outside, she took a photo at the Louvre’s pyramid, and then they went to the eatery.

  They lingered over wine and an omelet and salad for him, and a salade niçoise for her. He told her stories about his travels throughout France. How he and his siblings spent a month in Marseille one summer, soaking up the rays at the beach and then flitted off to their cousins’ house in the south of France.

  Roselle prodded him with questions, gasping from time to time, and downright ignoring her food in favor of giving him her rapt attention. His life was so fascinating and enriched because of his family, friends, and experiences. She missed having all of that but remained closed off, distancing herself as a coping mechanism and for her own self-preservation. She envied him and the valuable relationships he’d fostered over the years.

  Energized by the meal and conversation, they were ready for the next stop, Stephan’s favorite place in the city—Sacré-Cœur.

  “What’s so great about it?” she asked.

  He flung an arm around her shoulders, and she melted into him, immensely comforted under his arm. Touching him had become as natural as seeing or walking.

  “You’ll see,” he said.

  They walked like that until they descended into the next station and took the subway to the Barbès neighborhood. As they left the station, Stephan waved off an Arab man who approached holding out a gold chain for the low, low price of fifteen euros.

  “This is another side of Paris, the so-called ‘immigrant neighborhood,’” he explained. “Mostly Arabs and Black people from former French colonies. It’s where you’ll get some of the best ethnic food. There’s a place down there where you can get some delicious pho, and two streets over, the falafels will make you want to slap your momma.”

  Roselle giggled. “They’re really that good?”

  “Better.”

  They hurried across the street.

  This part of Paris was definitely a melting pot, with a mix of cultures condensed into one place. On the way to their destination, they passed a man roasting corn on a grill, wig shops, and a halal butcher.

  Stephan pointed out one of the souvenir stores. “This is a good place to get gifts. We can stop here on the way back.”

  She stuck close to him as they walked through the crowded streets. She noticed how men and women’s eyes lingered on him. He stood out, and they probably were trying to figure out if he was someone famous. A model or a movie star, perhaps.

  They walked up a sharp incline until they arrived at the bottom of the wide staircase that led to Sacré-Cœur, or the Sacred Heart Church, which opened in 1914. Constructed from white stone, the basilica stood out like a beacon on a hill, especially in the nighttime photos she’d seen online.

  Instead of taking the funicular, they decided to climb the stairs. On the way up, they both dropped a few bills into the open guitar case of
a musician strumming a tune at the bottom of the steps. The steps themselves were crowded with people chatting, drinking, and eating, which meant Stephan and Roselle had to weave their way up through the visitors.

  At the very top, they went inside the church and viewed the elaborately designed interior, stained glass windows, as well as one of the largest ceiling mosaics in the world, depicting a risen Christ. When they exited, they stood atop the stairs where a panoramic view of the city was laid out before them, with landmarks like the Eiffel Tower and Montparnasse visible in the distance.

  Roselle sighed with contentment. “I see why you like this spot.”

  They could see for miles and remained motionless for a while, absorbing the view in silence. Something about being here made her feel calm and free, alive.

  She snapped some photos and then they were on their way again. They paused to watch a young man display his acrobatic skills with a soccer ball, much to the delight of the crowd who gasped and clapped as dusk settled over the city.

  Their temporary stop ended up lasting almost an hour because other entertainers came through. Like any big city, there was no shortage of talented people to perform publicly for money. There was a male operatic singer and a juggler who wowed the crowd with precarious tricks as he hopped up and down the steps while catching and tossing bowling pins in the air.

  Stephan glanced at the time. “We better go if we don’t want to miss our ride on the Seine.”

  She anxiously agreed because the river cruise was on her must-do list. On the way back to the subway, they made a quick stop at the souvenir shop, and Roselle picked up an I Love Paris T-shirt for her great-aunt and a scarf with images of Paris landmarks all over it.

  They arrived at the Bateaux Mouches pier on the Seine with two minutes to spare and hopped aboard the cruise with the other riders. They sailed past the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, and other tourist attractions before returning to the pier.

  It was completely dark when the boat docked. Stephan glanced at his watch and asked, “Dinner first and then La Tour Eiffel?” he asked.

  “Sounds good to me.”

  They ate a light dinner and then walked to Place du Trocadéro, a public square set on a hill across from the Eiffel Tower, so they could see the next time the tower lit up.

  “This is where you want to take your pictures of La Tour Eiffel,” Stephan said.

  The gathered crowd included people hawking souvenirs, street performers, and tourists. Roselle waited anxiously, and right on time at ten o’clock, the twinkling lights lit up the massive structure from top to bottom, and everyone moaned and gasped in delight. She videotaped the event and took a video of herself, talking into the camera.

  “I’m at the Eiffel Tower!” she exclaimed.

  Five minutes later, the display was over.

  “Did we get everything in?” Stephan asked.

  “We did. You’re a great guide.” She couldn’t have asked for a better escort to see Paris on her birthday.

  Stephan frowned at her. “Hey, did you get any souvenirs for yourself?”

  “I don’t need anything. I have pictures, videos, and memories. More than anything, I wanted to see this landmark, and I have. I don’t care about anything else.”

  “Hang on a sec,” Stephan said and started walking away.

  “Where are you going?” Roselle called after him.

  “Don’t move.”

  He disappeared into the crowd, and when he reappeared, he held up a tiny metal replica of the Eiffel Tower on a keychain.

  “Happy birthday. Now you have a proper souvenir.”

  Roselle took the gift. It probably only cost him a few euros, but the thought behind the gift made her heart feel full.

  “You can’t help yourself, can you?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?” Despite the lack of light, she saw the genuine confusion on his beautiful face.

  “You’re always doing for other people.”

  “I just thought you’d like it.”

  Roselle raised up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “No matter what you like to pretend, you’re a sweetheart, Stephan. Thank you.”

  “I guess it takes one to know one,” he said quietly.

  She only smiled, and then they left the site.

  Chapter 13

  “There’s one more thing we have to do,” Stephan said.

  “What else do you have planned?”

  “Do you like surprises?”

  “No,” Roselle said with a little laugh, though she was starting to, thanks to him.

  “Pretend you do for now. I need to take you to a spot near the apartment. It’s a bakery, and I want you to meet the owner.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” he said enigmatically.

  He hailed a taxi, and they climbed in and headed back to the seventh arrondissement. Roselle stared out at the people and the cars going by, her heart turning as heavy as a block of stone. She already missed this place. The lights, the energy, the food, and the sights. She should have asked for more time. Two days wasn’t enough.

  They pulled up outside a bakery, and after paying, Stephan exited the vehicle. He gave Roselle a helping hand.

  “It’s closed,” she remarked. The display window was dark, and a single light above the door cast light on the doorstep.

  “Closed to the public, but not to us. I know the owner, and he’s cool.” Stephan walked confidently up to the glass door and knocked.

  “Are you sure? I feel awful disturbing him like this.” She still didn’t know why they were there, but it had something to do with her, which made her feel worse.

  “Don’t. He lives upstairs and doesn’t mind. He’s in love with my mother and would do anything for her, and by extension, anything for me. Trust me, it’s not a big deal.”

  After a few minutes, a light came on in the back, and a dark form shuffled toward them. A portly older man opened the door, and the wrinkles in his face ironed out as his face brightened into a smile.

  “Bonsoir, Henri.”

  “Stephan, bonsoir! It has been a long time. Good to see you. Comment ça va?” He and Stephan kissed once on each cheek.

  “I’m doing well. I’m here on business for my mother.”

  Henri pressed a hand to his heart. “Ah, Sylvie. How is she, my love, my heart?”

  Stephan let out a laugh. “You had your chance and didn’t make a move. Now she and my father are back together.”

  Henri looked crestfallen. “I know. I only hope he makes a mistake, and she will soon be free again. Next time, I will not miss my chance!” He looked at Roselle.

  Stephan spoke up immediately. “This is Roselle.”

  “Enchanté.” Henri kissed her on each cheek. “Welcome. Stephan told me it is your birthday. Happy birthday to you.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Come in.” Henri ushered them into the bakery and locked the door.

  “Do you have everything ready?” Stephan asked.

  “Mais oui. Asseyez-vous.” He motioned to a table set with two chairs in front of the window. Then he disappeared.

  “What are you up to?” Roselle whispered.

  “Have. A. Seat.” Stephan kept an enigmatic expression on his face. He pulled out a chair.

  Roselle glared at him, but deep down, she was excited. The trip so far had been fantastic, so what had he arranged? She sat in the chair, and then the thought came to her. They were in a bakery. Did he get her a cake? If taste was determined by smell alone, this bakery was a winner. From the moment they entered, her nostrils had been filled with the enticing scent of breads and pastries.

  Stephan sat down across from her. “Honestly, it’s not that big of a deal. I wanted to do a little something for you.”

  Her stomach tightened. He was so handsome, so magnificently male with his square jaw and a tight body she’d enjoyed exploring last night. And surprisingly kind—kinder than expected.

  She wished to prolong their time toge
ther, to bask in the energy and vibrance of his charismatic personality. Before him, her life had been dull and boring. In less than forty-eight hours, he’d forced her to see the technicolor world that surrounded her and embrace excitement instead of shunning it.

  Roselle leaned over the table and whispered, “Did Henri stand a chance with your mother?”

  Stephan shook his head. “My mother has a height requirement. She wants a man who’s taller than her when she’s in heels. My father barely made the cut.”

  Roselle laughed. “I met your dad once. They seem very, um…” She searched for the right word, worried she’d offend.

  “Different? Like polar opposites?” Stephan supplied.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s because they are. My mother’s high-strung and my father keeps her calm. At the same time, being with her excites him. I’m sure his life was boring as hell without her.”

  “Funny how some people gravitate toward each other.”

  “People you don’t expect to work as a couple. Sometimes you have no idea what you’re missing until you’re staring right at it. Some people need to be grounded. Calmed down.”

  Roselle nodded. “Others need to live their lives and have fun for a change.”

  Their gazes met across the table as thunder softly grumbled a warning.

  As longing stuck in her throat, Roselle glanced out at the street. A car passed by slowly, and a woman on a bike rolled by with a baguette sticking out of a tote on the back. She didn’t want to leave because everything would change when they returned to the U.S.

  Henri approached with a tray. On top of it were three lit candles in the middle of a chocolate torte.

  Roselle’s mouth fell open. Across the table, Stephan wore a smug, satisfied expression on his face.

  “Happy birthday.” Henri set the cake in the middle of the round table, along with a knife, two plates, and forks.