Wanderlust

by Lauren Blakely

  She narrows her eyes, stares at me. “You’re not going to run off to Iceland or Russia or the Amazon, are you?”

  “I have everything I want right here in front of me.”

  “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere. Turns out this city suits me.”

  “It suits you perfectly.”

  She slides her hand across the table. “Stay with me.”

  “I will.”

  As we dine, and talk, and laugh, and then stroll back to our home, I’m aware every moment that this is exactly where I want to be.

  Here, now, and for always.

  Epilogue

  Joy

  * * *

  I wrap a ruby-red scarf tighter around my neck and pull a white knit cap over my red hair. December has arrived, bringing snowfalls, nights in front of the fireplace, and the endless need to warm up under the covers.

  Now, though, I’m venturing outdoors.

  Sometimes, on Saturday afternoons, I surprise Griffin.

  I like to show up on the tail end of his tours.

  He’s still translating, but he’s also doing something he loves even more. He’s introducing tourists and natives alike to the curiosities of Paris that are hidden in plain sight. He’s not operating boat rides along the Seine, or leading trips through the Louvre. Others can do that better and enjoy it more, he has said.

  But there’s no one—not a soul in the whole wide world—who knows the corners of Paris better than him, the spots with unexpected delights that can be found all over this metropolis. A few times a day, he’ll guide travelers to the oddities of our city, showing them the street that runs under a residence in the 17th arrondissement, bizarre sculptures that jut out of buildings, sundials that do work, and sundials that don’t do their jobs at all. At other times, he mixes up his repertoire and takes his customers on tours of the best chocolate shops, always ending at what I call heaven with a cup of hot chocolate.

  That was my idea. After all, who doesn’t like chocolate?

  Sometimes he leads tours in Spanish, sometimes in French, often in English, and occasionally in Portuguese, since he now knows that language.

  That was his dream, and he stayed the course.

  Perhaps he was always meant to be an explorer. His journeys have simply become more local, in the city we both now call home. But we’ve managed to break out our passports a few times in the last several months. We’re not world travelers, but we saw the Northern Lights in Iceland, and they were as majestic as a queen’s glittery crown. We flew to Copenhagen last month and wandered through the charming streets, and we’re taking off for Tokyo in a few months to finally see what Griffin calls the neon city.

  “It’s more fun going places with you,” he’d said when we watched the stars in the cool night sky near the Arctic Circle.

  “Everything’s better together,” I’d replied.

  Life has been good here, too. Come What May is rolling out in time for the Christmas season, and I’m hopeful it’ll be a hit. My sister and parents will be visiting for the holidays, and I plan to take them shopping at all my favorite outdoor markets and the most fantastic department stores, too. After that, Griffin and I will take the train to London to see his parents for New Year’s.

  Really, what more could an American girl in Paris ask for? I’m speaking the language capably every day, mixing up concoctions in the lab during my working hours, and coming home to a man who makes me laugh, who makes me smile, and who loves to whisk me away. Sometimes, we take a trip around the world and we don’t even have to go anywhere. That’s what making love with him feels like.

  I guess I’ve always been a goner for a man with an English accent.

  And now I get to listen to one pretty much whenever I want.

  Yes, that’s what I call having it all.

  Today, I join in when he shows a group of Americans from San Francisco the angel I spotted in Île de la Cité one fine Sunday afternoon many months ago.

  “I’m not sure this angel means anything,” he says, pointing to the cherub carved into stone above an awning. “But it means something to me. The woman I love noticed it one day when we ate ice cream and wandered these streets. I’d never seen it before, not in all my travels. I learned then that some things are right in front of us, and we just have to look up.”

  He gives them all a few moments to look up, snap photos, then say good-bye.

  When they disperse, he takes my arm and links it through his. I ask how his day has been.

  “You tell me, you little spy.”

  “I like to keep you on your toes with my random appearances.”

  “And you do. You always do.”

  I raise my face and meet his gaze. “What do you want to do tonight?”

  He narrows his brow as if considering my question. “Sip champagne on the rooftop?”

  “That’s always a good idea,” I say as we stroll by the oldest clock in Paris.

  The golden hands tick tock their way around the face. “That clock is when I knew I wanted to be with you,” he says, a happily wistful tone to his voice.

  “It is?”

  He nods. “I remember thinking about time, and how we can’t ever retrieve lost hours. But we can make the most of the hours in front of us, and I wanted to spend those with you. It took me a while to sort out how that would happen. But now I have, and I want to keep savoring every minute.” He takes a beat, snapping his fingers as if he’s remembering something recently forgotten. “That reminds me. I had another idea for what to do tonight.”

  “What’s that?”

  He drops to one knee and flips open a maroon velvet box. My heart beats so loudly I can hear it, I swear, and a rush of breath escapes my lungs. Warmth spreads all over me as I gaze at a gorgeous diamond solitaire.

  “Let’s get engaged tonight,” he says, holding my gaze. “I love you madly, Joy. I love you so much I’d follow you around the world. I’d make you the center of my world. That’s what you are to me, and as we’ve made new dreams together, I have one more. Item number six. For you to be my wife.”

  My smile is as wide as the river. I drop to my knees, throw my arms around his neck, and cry the happiest tears of my life. I murmur one word as my answer. “Oui.”

  Fitting that it’s the same sound as an English word I rather love.

  We.

  That’s what we are.

  Another Epilogue

  Griffin

  Six months later

  * * *

  The bubbly liquid slides down the crystal flute, and I hand it to Joy, setting the bottle on the table.

  She raises her glass as the sunset flares behind her, the last remnants of the day tugging streaks of deep pink into the horizon.

  “And what are we toasting to tonight, Mr. Thomas?”

  I clink my glass to hers. “Hmm. Could it be that you now have three last names?”

  She leans her head back and laughs, a rich, bright laugh that I love. “Assuming I use them all.”

  “Oh, please. What could be better than introducing yourself as Joy Danvers-Lively-Thomas, the best perfumer in the world?”

  “That does have a nice ring to it,” she says, taking a drink of the champagne.

  “Speaking of rings . . .” I hold up my hand, the platinum band on it sparkling under the fading light, then thread my fingers with hers. I take another drink, set the glass down, and pull her next to me on the chaise. “That takes care of number five on my list.”

  * * *

  Drink champagne on your rooftop when we say good-bye to the crazy idea that we weren’t meant to last, because we are. Check.

  * * *

  She brushes her lips to mine. “Can I have my postscript now, please?”

  “You can always have that.”

  And I make sure she always does.

  * * *

  THE END

  Curious about Christian and Elise? They have a story to tell in PART-TIME LOVER, releasing in June! Read on for more on that standalone roma
nce! Also, be sure to check out COME AS YOU ARE, a sexy, swoony standalone romance with a masquerade ball, a Cinderella twist, and a billionaire hero who will sweep you off your feet. You can sign up directly for my newsletter to receive an alert when these sexy new books are available!

  Upcoming Releases

  ABOUT PART-TIME LOVER…

  * * *

  I’ll say this about Christian — he made one hell of a first impression. When I first saw the strapping man, he was doing handstands naked on a dock along the canal. His crown jewels were far more entertaining than anything else I’d seen on the boat tour, so I did what any curious woman would do — I took his photo. I might have looked at the shot a few dozen times. Little did I know I’d meet him again, a year later, at a secret garden bar in the heart of the city, where I’d learn that his mind and his mouth were even more captivating. But given the way my heart had been trampled, I wanted only a simple deal — No strings. No expectations.

  * * *

  Our arrangement worked well enough until the day I needed a lot more from him…

  Let me just say, this whole part-time lover thing was her idea. I’d have gone all-in from the start, but hey, when a gorgeous, brilliant woman invites you into her bed, and only her bed…well, I said yes.

  * * *

  But then, one hysterical phone call from my brother later, begging me to find myself a wife so grandfather’s business stays in the family, and I need a promotion with Elise. Turns out a full-time husband suits her needs too, and a temporary marriage of convenience ought to do the trick, until we can simply untie the knot…

  * * *

  As long as no one finds out…

  As long as no one gets hurt…

  As long as no one falls in love…

  * * *

  But our ending was one I never saw coming.

  * * *

  PART-TIME LOVER will be available everywhere!

  * * *

  Chapter One

  Elise

  * * *

  A year ago

  * * *

  Something about the last night in a foreign city makes you want to do crazy things. You want to drink it all in, and taste every single dish on the menu. After all, tomorrow you’ll be gone.

  Left with only memories.

  The last night is the last stop on the merry-go-round of memory-making.

  The last afternoon is, too, and as the sun careens mercilessly towards the horizon, it’s a reminder that I need to jam everything in.

  “Do you feel like going a little bit wild?” I ask Veronica.

  She wiggles her eyebrows. “If you mean day drinking, we’ve already done that.”

  I wag my finger as we stroll down the middle of a cobbled street. “One glass of wine at lunch does not constitute day drinking.”

  “No? That seems the very definition.”

  I link an arm through hers. “One glass is simply a beverage at lunch. The meter doesn’t start on day drinking until you hit two glasses, silly goose.”

  “How good to know the scale for lushness,” she says drily as she stops to stare a handbag in the Prada store window.

  I give her a few seconds to worship at the altar of designer goods. “In any case, I was thinking we ought to do something we’ve never done before.”

  She snaps her gaze from the far-too-expensive leather item she’ll never buy, and presses a hand demurely to her chest, batting her hazel eyes innocently. “I’m not that kind of girl.”

  I laugh. “As if.”

  “I know. You like your sausage too much.”

  “As do you. You’re practically a butcher,” I say as we sidestep a pair of strapping, chiseled blond men, who look like twin models for “Scandinavian Design’s Catalogue of Men—Denmark” edition. Their blue eyes linger on both of us, and one smiles and offers a confident, “Hello.”

  “Hello to you, too,” I say with a grin.

  They continue in their direction, and we head in ours.“Should we just wander down the streets and say hello to random hot men?” Veronica offers.

  “I don’t think that’s an entirely bad idea, but no, that’s not my notion of wild.”

  This urge to have one wild night is in complete contrast to the purpose of the three-days-in-Copenhagen getaway Veronica insisted I needed.

  It’s been a year since . . .

  I shake away the dark thought.

  Anniversaries of horrible days require trips. And day drinking. And refocusing on things that you control.

  “If I want to explore the travel sector more at work, I need to know even more about this city, so I can advertise it better. What if we take one of those buffet boat tours?”

  She laughs. “What’s a buffet boat tour?”

  “A buffet of landmarks. All-your-eyes-can-eat.” As we near the wide square at the end of the block, I point to the red booth advertising canal tours. I play my ace. “It’s like a crash course in Copenhagen, and we’ll make sure we haven’t missed a single thing. It’ll help me win new business. You know I need to focus on work.”

  She flashes a smile of understanding. “Anything for you when you prey on my sympathies.” She marches up to the fire-engine red booth and purchases two tickets for the next tour, and we head down the concrete steps to the boat.

  The blond guide with aviator shades and shoulder-length hair flashes a bright smile as we step onboard, his nametag glinting in the afternoon sun. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

  “Lars, she’s no lady.” Veronica points to me and winks.

  “Ladies or not, you’re both welcome on my ship as long as you promise to enjoy the sights.”

  “We will. Also, you’re handsome, Lars.” Veronica is shamelessly a flirt.

  “Thank you very much, and I’ll enjoy the sights as well.” It seems Lars is a flirt, too. His blue-eyed gaze lingers on my friend with the hourglass figure and pretty eyes as we take our seats.

  We wait for the boat to fill, but only a handful of others join us. An older couple, sports hats, cameras on their necks, and matching I Heart Copenhagen sweatshirts. There are also a gaggle of twenty-something women with long legs and college sweatshirts, and some Japanese tourists.

  I lean back in the cushioned seat, dropping my sunglasses to shield my eyes as the boat peels away from the dock. As we slide over the placid water, Lars regales us with tales of royal families and scandals, pointing out the city’s sights. I lean closer to Veronica and whisper, “Will you pick up where you left off with the handsome boat captain?”

  Lars suffers from an affliction common to many men in Denmark. He’s a cut above average in the looks department. Let the record reflect, the Danes make the best-looking men.

  “Of course. I’m going to talk to him when the tour ends.”

  “Excellent. I love your planning skills.”

  The boat slides under another bridge then motors through a more residential area, passing homes on the water, and private docks every few feet. My eyes hungrily eat up the view. My current hometown of Paris is my love, but I could get used to weekends in Copenhagen. It’s a delightful mix of old and new, like a Swiss alpine town mated with a futuristic sky-rise city.

  As I gaze at the sun-soaked homes, I imagine lazy afternoons drinking strong coffee on the deck, reading delicious tales under the rays. That seems like a recipe for happiness for the rest of my days.

  I want to feel that way. Happy. It’s been so damn elusive for the last few years, and for a fleeting moment, it feels as if I grasp it again, so I’m no longer teetering on the edge of grief and shame.

  But that’s why I’m here, to move past that terrible duet.

  I try valiantly to simply enjoy everything in front of me: the buildings, the water, the view.

  As we round the bend in the canal, I blink at the view.

  Holy hell, the unexpected view.

  Nearby is a private dock.

  On that dock is a man.

  He’s performing a downward-facing dog, and his rear is facing us.<
br />
  What a spectacular ass.

  It’s not covered in sweatpants or basketball shorts.

  It’s au naturel, as finely sculpted as the statue of David.

  He’s a dog all right.

  I sit up.

  I practically stand. I lean on the edge of the boat, agog. I won’t even pretend I’m not looking. I’m ogling.

  The Japanese friends whisper and point. The couple shifts closer to get a better look. The college girls titter and laugh.

  We slide along on the calm water, and now we’re fifty feet away from a sight way better than the Little Mermaid statue, more magnificent than the royal palace.

  He bends forward, pressing his palms into the wood, lifting his legs, and flipping them upside down.

  Full. Frontal. Birthday suit.

  He’s a tall drink of man, and I’m so very thirsty.

  “Look,” I whisper to Veronica, though of course she’s already engaged in the fine art of gawking. “Did you know the Mad Naked Handstander of Copenhagen was on the tour?”

  She sighs contentedly. “I am so glad you forced me to go to the buffet.” She parks her chin in her hands, watching the tall upside-down creature.

  “My favorite part of the buffet is dessert,” I say, as my eyes gobble him up.

  It’s an angle you don’t see men in that often.

  I suspect most people don’t look good like this when naked and in such an unusual position.

  But this man wears nudity well.

  “I enjoyed the rubies and emeralds in Rosenborg Castle, but I like these crown jewels even better,” I say.

  And hey, perhaps I’m perving, but I’m an equal-opportunity spectator at this private dock show. I don’t merely peer at the centerpiece of his physique, resting majestically against the grooves of his abs. My eyes take a most happy stroll up and down his carved body, from the planes of his stomach, to his strong thighs, to his arms ripped with muscles. His face is hard to read at 180 degrees, but I see the shape of his cheekbones, carved by angels.