“That’s the time my watch is set to as well.”
“I have truffles. Want one?” She waggles the bag, and I adopt a new truism immediately. When a pretty woman offers you chocolate, you say yes.
“I would love one. As long as you promise they aren’t poisoned.”
Her expression is intense, overly serious. “As an avid and well-known poisoner, you have my solemn vow,” she says, then offers one.
“Well, since it’s a solemn vow . . .” I slide closer to her on the bench just as she slides closer to me. I snag a chocolate. “I’m going to trust it’s not laced with arsenic.”
She scoffs. “Please. I’m all about cyanide. It’s stronger and faster.”
I stop, chocolate midair. “How do you know that?”
She laughs, a bright, cheery sound. “I read a lot of mysteries. I can tell you the ten deadliest poisons, and the ones most likely to go undetected. But the look on your face is priceless, like you really thought I was going to off you.”
I take the chocolate, pop it in, and bite. “I’m living life on the edge. Taking my chances.”
“Go you.”
When I finish, I hold up my bag of treats. “Want one of my deadly sweets? I made sure to pick up the botulinum-laced variety,” I say in a macabre voice.
Her eyes twinkle. “Best morning ever. This is like Russian roulette with chocolate.” She chooses a square, then moans around the chocolate. “Oh, that is divine.”
So are your lips.
So are your sounds.
“Glad you like it,” I say, as a horn honks. I glance at the river where a boat bleats as it winds its way along the Seine. One of those three-hour cruises perhaps, and something I’d considered for my last day in Paris.
But as much as I enjoy the view of the river and the idea of a day on the water, I like the view on the bench so much more.
And the chance that may be next to me.
I didn’t think I’d place in the bike race.
But I went all out.
No reason to do anything differently with the chocolate poisoner. The gorgeous brunette looks to be in her early twenties, only a few years younger than I am. Maybe she’s as single as I am too. “I’m Reid. I’m from London. I was in Paris for a bike race with my team. We placed third. I’m heading home tonight.”
Her smile is magnetic. “I’m Marley. I’m here with friends before I return to New York to start business school.”
I extend a hand and shake hers. “Pleasure to meet you, Marley.”
“And you too, Reid,” she says, holding my hand longer than I expect as she studies my face. Then she takes a breath, like she’s preparing to say something.
And I hope it’s not that she needs to leave.
But I don’t want to miss a chance to enjoy my last few hours here to the fullest, so I speak first. “There’s a new shop a mile away. Fancy a chocolate tour?”
4
Marley
It’s like he can read my mind. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
One eyebrow quirks. “If I wanted to go on a chocolate tour?”
I wave my hand in the direction of a bookstore I’ve heard about. “Well, actually to a bookstore. But chocolate works too.”
He strokes his chin, like a detective noodling on a case. “Were you going to share all your favorite mysteries featuring death by poisoning?”
I grin mischievously. “I was indeed.”
His expression shifts as a delighted grin lights up his handsome face, highlighting his square jaw and his soulful brown eyes. “Chocolate always works, but so do books.”
He rises.
I dust off my hands, grab my bag, and tuck the chocolate into my purse. I eye his chocolate bag. “Want me to carry your chocolate?”
He clutches it, pretending to squire it away from me. “A poisoner and a chocolate thief? I’ve been warned about your type.” He wags a finger at me.
“And yet you’re walking along the Seine with me,” I tease as we stroll.
“True. Apparently, I am easily enchanted by American accents,” he says with a wry smile as we wind past a street lamp, and he hands me his bag of chocolate. I tuck it into my purse.
“Your British one isn’t too shabby,” I say, and then I dive right into questions. Because I can. Because clearly this is a day that is bursting with possibilities and none of those options require holding back. I can’t help but think Bethany and Emery will be so jealous, but I’m not doing this to make them jealous. I’m doing this because it feels like what a last day in Paris should be like—a walk beside a river with a handsome stranger, full of potential and flirtation. “You’re from London and heading home tonight?”
He nods as we reach the corner of the street, and I let my eyes roam over him. Jeans and a gray T-shirt. He looks about twenty-four or twenty-five. “My bags are packed, and I’m ready to go,” he says, and there’s the slightest hint of sadness in his voice.
Funny, I feel a touch of it too already. A touch of missing. That’s so odd because I’ve spent only a few minutes with him.
But already we click.
Instantly. Incredibly.
And that’s why not spending another hour with him in this city would be a missed opportunity.
“Mine too,” I say, choosing to enjoy this time fully.
“Are you headed home today?”
“Tomorrow morning. At the crack of dawn,” I say with a frown. “Why do six a.m. flights even exist? We have to be at Charles de Gaulle at four thirty.”
He shakes his head. “They should be abolished. When I’m in charge of all things, I will outlaw flights at ungodly hours.”
“Thank you,” I say, like I’m imploring his graciousness. “You have my vote for prime minister.”
His brown eyes seem to twinkle. “I thank you for your support.” He takes a beat as we cross the avenue. “Have you enjoyed your trip so far, Marley? Summer in Paris can be lovely or vicious.”
“It’s been lovely. We went to Italy and to Spain and to Paris.”
“Quite the jaunt.”
“I know, and I’m so lucky we were able to pull this off. My friends are at the top of the Eiffel Tower now, but I didn’t want to do that. I happen to detest heights.”
“You do?”
I nod, like I’m confessing. “They make me nervous. Like, I can see all the ways they can go wrong. I picture flinging myself down from the top story, and well, that kind of ruins them.”
“That would definitely do it.”
“Are you afraid of anything? Like, anything totally irrational?”
“Just your standard fear of poisoning by chocolate. But that’s hardly irrational,” he says with a wink. “Tell me more about your trip.”
I picture the last few weeks, recalling our adventures in Rome, our meanderings across the city of Barcelona, and our time in Paris these last few days. “We did it on a shoestring budget,” I explain. “We’d made a vow to take a European trip when we graduated, especially since we’re all heading in different directions. One of my friends is going to law school. The other starts her first job.”
“And you’re going to business school?”
“Yes. And while I’m there, I hope to figure out what exactly I want to do in business someday.”
“Ah, work. Yes, I’ve heard of that. It’s so dreadful when it gets in the way of bike races and chocolate shops. Shall I ask if you’ve given any thought yet to what you want to do, or is that a topic best avoided?”
I shrug, but it’s the happy kind, because it doesn’t entirely bother me that I don’t know. “Is it crazy to say I’m not sure? I do want to run my own business. But I’m torn. Sometimes I think I might want to work in public relations and open my own firm. And other times I think I want to market new fashion lines. But I also really like just talking to people, so maybe I should open a cute little boutique, and then it’ll turn into a whole line of cute little boutiques. Or I could start a coffee and chocolate shop,” I say, to
ssing out that last option.
“Do you like coffee?”
I adopt a serious stare. “Like it’s a religion.”
“I pray at that altar too. So, I say you should open a café that sells clothes and then do your own PR for it.”
I snap my fingers like I have all the answers now. “There you go. Now I know what I want to do.”
“See? It was serendipity that we met,” he says playfully as we weave past a Frenchwoman pushing a trolley full of groceries, a baguette poking out the top of one bag.
“But I’ll miss Paris,” I say, glancing at the bread, then at this man by my side who doesn’t feel like a stranger at all. Nor does he feel like the handsome guy I just happened to bump into. He feels like a guy whose path I was meant to cross.
We slow our pace at a light. “I’ll miss Paris too,” he says as he holds my gaze longer than I expect.
I should look away. I should break the moment. But I don’t. Because my stomach flips. And tingles spread down my arms. Then I whisper, “I’m glad I’m afraid of heights.”
The light changes, and we cross.
He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, then smiles. His smile is fantastic. So warm and inviting. “I’m glad you’re afraid of heights too.”
5
Reid
I wouldn’t say we gorge ourselves on chocolate, but we come damn close.
Marley is a fiend when it comes to sweets, with a sweet tooth that matches mine. I tell her as much as we regard the carnage of our chocolate fiesta on the table—those little wrapper things that hold the chocolates are completely empty. “We have officially made this morning chocolate o’clock every damn second.”
“We have,” she says, straightening her shoulders like she’s issuing a declaration. “And I regret nothing.”
“I regret nothing either.”
She sets her chin in her hand and meets my eyes. “So, Reid. What do you do in London when you aren’t devouring chocolate?”
I lean back in the chair, diving into the quick details. “I’m a designer. I studied graphic design at university. I’m working my way up now, but someday I’d like to have my own company.”
She smiles. “I love that. Love that you know what you want to do. What is that like—to know?”
I ponder her question for a few seconds, maybe more. “It’s like . . . normal. If that makes sense? I think I’ve always known. I’ve loved drawing and designing, and it was always my path. I like this path. I’m glad I’m on it.”
“What can you draw?” There’s a curious glint in her eyes.
“I happen to be a fantastic doodler. But I’m also tops at drawing caricatures of American girls in chocolate shops.”
A laugh seems to burst from her. “Are you serious?”
“As serious as a heart attack.” I head to the counter, ask the shopkeeper for a pen and napkin, and return to her, doing a quick rudimentary sketch of her face. It’s great fun, because it gives me free rein to stare at her the whole time, to study the shape of her cheekbones, her big brown eyes, the freckles dotting the bridge of her nose.
She sports a grin the entire time, like she’s delighting in this moment. I certainly am—it’s an unexpected morning in this city with her, and I don’t want it to end.
When I’m finished, I show her the napkin.
She chuckles. “That’s adorable.”
I preen in an over-the-top fashion. “I am known in many parts of the world as an adorable doodler.” Then a spate of nerves crawls up my spine. Do I ask her if she wants to keep this? Is that too much for whatever this brief encounter is? This random date that’s careening toward its inevitable end in hours?
She speaks first. “I’d like to keep it. May I?”
My chest warms. “It’s all yours, Marley.”
Neither one of us says anything for a moment. We simply look at each other. Sparks race over my skin, across my chest. This thing, this chemistry, it can’t go anywhere. But right now, it feels like we’re somewhere special.
And I don’t want today to end until it must. I only have a few hours, but I want to spend them with her. “Do you believe in happiness?” I ask.
She tilts her head. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Do you believe it’s possible though? Is it worth chasing?”
“Often I think it’s the only thing worth chasing,” she says, then adds with a sigh, “but sometimes responsibilities get in the way.”
“They do. So you seize your chances for happiness.”
“Are you happy?”
I smile. “I’m pretty sure the way I feel right now is the very definition of the word.”
The look on her face is magical, like I’ve said the one perfect thing, so I do my best to keep up my winning streak. “Do you want to go to a bookstore?”
I’m rewarded with another smile. “I would love to. That’s the other definition of happiness.”
6
Marley
The bookstore is quiet, and the delicious smell of pages drifts through the shelves. Patrons lounge in well-worn leather chairs, reading books of poetry or tales of love gone awry.
Truth be told, I have no idea what they’re reading, but it feels like that’s what they must be inhaling. Or maybe they’re devouring stories of strangers who meet for a moment in time, who connect in an instant electric burst, then the firecracker fizzles out, leaving the night pitch-black.
For a second, a storm cloud descends on me.
That’s what today is with Reid. I knew that when we first rose from the bench and wandered along the river.
We’re a moment in time. A starburst. A spark against the sky that burns bright and fast.
But I’m embracing it.
Even though there’s a part of me that’s wishing, wanting for today to last beyond this date on the calendar.
Only that’s silly.
Today is what it is.
A day.
Heck, it’s a few hours. A moment in time.
And time should be cherished.
We walk past a table that holds gift books, including a coffee table one with photos of Paris. I run my thumb across the cover then open it, flipping through the images. I point to the ones I like best. Paris in the rain. Paris in the snow. Paris in the sun. “This makes me happy too. These pictures.”
He flips to an image of a café. “And that does the trick for me.”
I set down the book, and we wander through the mysteries, whispering about poisons and butlers and deadly nights. The steps creak as we head up the staircase to the second floor. It all feels so European. On the second floor, we wander through the stacks of English-language titles.
He picks up a book with a sad-looking man on the cover, staring forlornly into the distance. “He’s having a bad day, isn’t he?” Reid whispers.
“A terrible one, but if you get that book, yours will become worse.”
“I’ll return it straight away,” he says, tucking it back on the shelf, then stepping closer to me. “Perhaps I should find a book that will only make the day better.” He takes a beat. “But that would seem impossible.”
I look down, then at him, and smile. My stomach flips when he holds my gaze. “I agree.” I lick my lips, then continue along the aisle, where I grab a book with an image of a skillet on the front. “Top Skillet Recipes to Change Your Life.” I tap it. “This will make your day amazing.”
He nods seriously. “That’s true. That does look like a day-brightening book.”
“It’s your typical airplane read,” I tease as we walk past an alcove with an old typewriter perched on a tiny oval table. A handwritten note on the typewriter’s keys says Drink each day.
I stare at it for a long time. Reid does the same. “Is that a directive to grab a pint?”
“I don’t think so,” I say pensively.
He gives me an inquisitive look. “What do you think it means, Marley?”
“I think it means drink each day down like it’s delic
ious.”
His brow furrows like he’s considering this. “That’s what you take away from it?”
“I do,” I say, feeling certain. “Drink, savor, indulge.”
His brown eyes darken as I say those words. “Those are some delicious verbs.”
“See? That’s what I mean. When you read it that way, it changes the meaning. It’s not the best recipes for skillets that will change your life. It’s savoring. Like the day is a glass of your favorite wine,” I say, lifting an imaginary glass. “And you enjoy every last sip.”
He’s quiet as he seems to study my face, then he sets a hand on my back as we make our way to an open window, stopping to stare at the cobblestoned streets below.
I’m keenly aware that he hasn’t removed his hand from my back. Just the slightest touch without being too much, too presumptuous.
But I wouldn’t mind a little presumption.
“Do you enjoy your days like that? Like the note urges?” he asks.
“It’s hard to say. I’ve just finished college, and that’s not entirely the place where you can or should drink each day. But I think that’s why I’ve enjoyed this trip so much. I’ve tried to set aside all the unknowns of what will happen in business school. What I’ll decide to do. I’m trying to just enjoy every moment, then learn what I love so I can decide what type of business I do want to run someday. What about you? Do you savor the days?” I ask.
“I don’t know if I always do. Sometimes I worry too much about work. The future. What I’m going to do next. The next step. The next job.”
“I worry about that too. But I try to tell myself there will be time for that.”
“I should take a page from your book and do that too,” he says, bumping my shoulder. “Like what I did there?”
I groan, smiling though, because I like contact with him. “I like it a lot.”
As he stares out the window, his gaze seems to land on a lanky Frenchman trundling by on a bike. The cyclist holds a bouquet of red balloons.
I laugh, tickled by the image. “He’s enjoying his day.”
Your French Kisses (Boyfriend Material Book 4) Page 2
