Forget (Changing Colors Book 1)

by Alcorn, N. A.

  My eyes admire the city and then fixate on his presence. I almost forgot the effect of him up close. Clear green eyes, messy hair, and colorful tattoos peeking out from his shirt. He’s donned in what I’m finding is his normal no-fuss style—grey cotton t-shirt, black jeans, and bare feet. I never knew bare feet could look so hot on a guy, but holy hell, Dylan in bare feet is damn near erotic. My nerve endings prickle in anticipation of something. It’s like my body expects him to rip off my clothes and fuck me right here on the terrace. Jesus, Brooke!

  He takes a sip from a white—big surprise—coffee mug. His hand gestures for me to take the seat across from him. “Please, join me.”

  “This view is amazing,” I say while sitting down. My hands nervously fidget with the frayed hem of my shorts.

  He nods, glancing towards the Paris skyline. “I spend a lot of time out here when the weather is nice. It’s why I bought the place from my Uncle. The flat isn’t big by any means, but it’s enough, and the view from this terrace is one of my favorite views in the city.”

  “Uncle?”

  “Not Christophe,” he answers, reading my thoughts. “My Uncle Charles on my dad’s side of the family.” Since I’m starting to piece the whole family tree together, I’m wondering if Millie knew anyone else from his family besides Christophe and Dylan’s father. It’s insane to think that she sent me to a bar to find a guy named Alexandre, who also happens to be the father of the guy I met on the métro. Millie would have called it serendipity.

  “Feeling better?” he asks.

  “Much better.” I do. It’s amazing what a seated shower and putting on mostly clean clothes can do for a girl. “So how exactly did we end up here last night?”

  “Well . . . Lindsay and my brother went back to her hotel room before we were ready to leave the party. We didn’t spill out of there until after five in the morning, and since my flat was closest, we came back here. I could tell you were too exhausted and probably too drunk to make it all the way back to your hotel,” he clarifies. By his explanation, you’d think it’s the most normal thing in the world for me to just end up at his place, as if we’ve known each other for years and it’s something we do all the time.

  “So . . . did we . . . uh . . . did we, you know . . .” I’m embarrassed that I’m even asking this question.

  “What do you think?” he questions, straight-faced, not giving a damn thing away.

  Bastard.

  “The details are slowly coming back to me. I remember the uh . . . the terrace.” My skin heats at the memory. “And I remember dancing with you, a lot of dancing in fact, and I remember kissing in the cab on the way back to your place, but that’s about it. I think that’s about as far as it went . . .” I trail off, searching his face for a hint. It stays void of emotion, merely staring back at me while I bumble through this conversation. “I mean, I have a feeling I would know if you and I . . . if we . . . I just know that I would remember every detail of a night like that. I think I would be able to feel the reminder of it too.”

  Did I really just say that? Out loud? I groan. My head falls to the table, landing on top of my crossed arms. “I’m blaming every word that’s coming out of my mouth on the fact that I’m still hungover.” My words are mumbled against my skin.

  He laughs big belly like chuckles. “I’m just messing with you, Brooke. I guess that wasn’t very nice of me, was it?”

  “I refuse to lift my head off this table until you swear not to screw with me like that again.”

  Soft laughter spills from his lips. Long fingers slide under my chin, lifting my eyes to his. “I promise. No more teasing. Well, at least no more teasing until you’ve had a chance to eat something.”

  I sit up straight in my seat. “Watch yourself, buddy. I’m known to be quite the sarcastic bitch when I want to be.”

  He throws the white flag, holding up both arms up. “I promise I’ll be on my best behavior, a perfect English gentleman.”

  I roll my eyes, but it’s in good humor. He’s pretty adorable when pleading for my forgiveness.

  “And for the record, last night was amazing, especially the part with you and me on the terrace. That’s something I’ve put on my ‘let’s do it again’ list.” The words roll of his tongue, hinting at that hidden French accent.

  My jaw drops in utter shock, although my body seems more than on board with his suggestion. I squirm in my seat. Glancing down at the borrowed black shirt, I’m relieved, that even sans bra, the t-shirt doesn’t reveal how turned on I am. It’s ridiculous I’d even question my nipples’ visibility. My 34B chest is small enough that I could go braless in all of my clothes, and no one would notice.

  “I’m not quite sure what to do with you.” I shake my head, trying to regain composure.

  I wish I could find the brazen girl I was last night. I bet she’d handle this situation with a lot less awkward and a lot more “take me on the table, right here, right now.” The heat on my cheeks spreads down my neck and to my chest, leaving me with two options—either change the subject or find a fan to cool my body temperature down.

  Choosing the latter, I glance at the shirt. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took it upon myself to borrow this. Once I saw it, I knew I had to wear it.”

  He chuckles, waving me off, completely nonchalant about it.

  I’ll keep it to myself that I went through his underwear drawer and borrowed a pair of his briefs. “You must think I’m nuts. Sitting in your shower for like forty minutes, and then taking it upon myself to borrow whatever the hell I want. I swear I’m not usually this rude in other people’s homes.”

  His hand covers mine, giving a reassuring squeeze. “I told you to make yourself at home, Brooke. And I like that you stayed last night, especially the part where you slept in my bed. You make cute little noises when you’re tossing around in your sleep.”

  I hold my hand up. “Please, do not tell me that I snore.”

  “No snoring, lots of mumbling, but no snoring.” His smirk reveals that one perfect dimple indented in his right cheek. Dylan releases my hand. He fills a white mug and sets it in front of me. “In order to join me for morning tea, you actually have to drink the tea,” he teases. “And eat at least one of these.” He points to a plate covered in delicious French pastries.

  “Tea?” I question, eyeing him curiously.

  “I know how you Americans are about your coffee, but I’m half British, and tea is a requirement,” he jokes. A cube of sugar and a little milk are poured into my mug. “Try it, I promise you’ll love it, probably even more than your precious coffee.”

  My lips take a tentative sip. I shrug. “It’s not bad, not as good as coffee, but definitely tolerable.”

  He chuckles lightly and then nods towards my shirt . . . well, his shirt. “Big fan of The Kills?” he asks.

  “I know it’s a total cliché because everyone says it, but Baby Says is probably my favorite song of theirs.”

  He chuckles again, nodding in agreement. “It’s the lyrics. They’re bloody brilliant.”

  “I know, right? I mean, I have ten years’ worth of albums by them, but there’s just something about this song . . . I can’t put my finger on it, but if you’re feeling broken, this is the song to put on repeat, it’ll fix you up in no time.” I rest my chin in my hands, elbows relaxed on the small bistro table. It’s a nice change of pace to feel so at ease. No concerns about bumbling through idiotic comments or blinding him with my camera. No worries about anything. I’m just sitting here, enjoying this time with him.

  “Favorite lyrics from that song?” he asks.

  “Okay . . .” I pause, running through them in my head. It’s damn near impossible to pick. “Damn, this is harder than I thought.” I tap my chin with my index finger as I narrow down a few. “Okay . . . I think I’ve got it . . . Wait . . .” I ramble, still trying to pick my favorites.

  Dylan leans back in his seat, crossing his leg. His green eyes are smiling at me, more than amused by my indecisive
ness.

  “The only way to do it right, is to sing them for you,” I say. Being alone with Dylan, chatting music and albums and favorite bands comes so easy. Little tidbits of our day spent at the record store float around in my brain, reminding me how the conversation between us just flows. It’s damn near effortless. I guess that explains why singing a few verses doesn’t have my stomach knotting up in nerves.

  “Let’s hear it,” he encourages.

  I tap the table with my hands, mimicking the beat of the song, and his smile gets wider. His eyes grow infinitely interested in what’s about to come out of my mouth. I sing the four verses that mean the most to me. For most, they’re obscure, but to me, they pull at my heartstrings every time I hear them.

  “Perfect.” He claps his hands a few times, eyes shining at my impromptu performance.

  A surprised laugh escapes my throat as I sit back in the chair. “I can’t believe I just did that.”

  “You’re far too talented, love. You need to share that gorgeous voice more often.”

  The compliment makes me look away. I internally groan at my stupid reaction. Why do women do that? Why can’t we just take a compliment and say thank you? Instead we blush or wave it off, or avoid eye contact. I clear my throat, steeling myself, and then bring my eyes back to his. “Thank you,” I say, proving that I do have the balls to accept a fucking compliment.

  “You’re welcome.” He glances out towards the street, and I get the sense he’s thinking about something. “When I first heard The Kills’ Blood Pressures album, it was on repeat for a month. I can play every record on that album without even having to think through the chords.” His words surprise me a little, and I’m thankful he was merely just thinking about my favorite pastime, music.

  My subconscious whispers, you’ve got a new favorite pastime, and he’s sitting right in front of you. I ignore her. She’s probably still horny from coming all over his hand.

  “Baby Says sounds amazing acoustically if it’s done right. I’m a little disappointed you didn’t play it the other night at Pop In. It would have had me all starry-eyed, and maybe even a little swoony. Hell, I might have melted into a puddle at your feet.”

  “Bloody hell.” He snaps his fingers. “That would have had me more than chuffed. I could have accomplished my life’s mission.”

  “Chuffed?”

  “Excuse my British slang. I mean, pleased,” he explains.

  “Chuffed,” I test the word out and then crinkle my nose. “Nope, it only works when you say it in that sexy English accent of yours.”

  A mischievous smile forms at his lips. “First my body, now my accent. What else do you find sexy, Little Wing?”

  “I can’t really think of anything else.” I shrug, acting indifferent.

  Dylan’s smile gets wider, his entire face beaming. His hand slides across the table, turning my hand over, palm-side up. “This is very sexy,” he says, fingers tracing the smudges of black ink. “I quite like the idea of leaving my mark on you, knowing you’ve been walking around Paris with my name and number on your hand.”

  “Do you always make a point of branding women with your number?”

  He shakes his head. “You’re the first woman I’ve branded.”

  I’m oddly comforted by that fact, and more than thankful he’s never acted put out or pissed off that I didn’t call him. “Just so you know . . . I wanted to call you, really wanted to call you, but I was far too embarrassed. I made a complete ass out of myself that day.”

  “I’m pleased I’m not as forgetful as I thought. You really know how to leave a bloke hanging . . .” he trails off. His eyes shine with humor, and then flicker down at the faded black ink on my skin. “Why were you embarrassed?” he questions, smirking like the devil.

  The picture . . . Oh dear God, he wants me to admit it.

  I flash an annoyed stare. “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”

  He feigns confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Is there something you feel like you need to admit?”

  I sigh, scrubbing a hand down my face. “Fine, I’ll be the bigger person here.” My hands drop unceremoniously to my lap. “I was, in fact, taking your picture on the métro.” I feel like a Catholic schoolgirl who just confessed her dirtiest sin to a priest.

  “I knew it!” he exclaims. His grin is all “I told you so.”

  I point my finger at him. “Go ahead and wipe that cocky grin off your face, I was taking your picture because of Lindsay. I promised her I would send pictures of every hot French guy I saw.”

  “Every hot French guy you saw?” He waggles his eyebrows.

  If his head gets any bigger, I’m not sure we’ll be able to fit him back inside the apartment. With a roll of my eyes and an exasperated sigh, I say, “You know you’re ridiculously hot. It’s practically unreasonable, to be honest. No guy should look as good as you and sound as good as you or smell as good as you . . .” I stop, realizing the hole I’m digging is only getting deeper. At this point, I’ll be in China by midnight.

  “I wish I’d recorded that.”

  I stifle a laugh. “I’m blaming this entire conversation and my horrid display of picture-taking skills on Lindsay.”

  “So it’s all Lindsay’s fault?”

  “Exactly. You’re lucky I only promised face shots. I doubt you would’ve enjoyed a strange girl asking you for a dick pic on the métro.” The fact that I just said the words dick pic has my cheeks threatening to burst into flames. Considering that less than twelve hours ago, my brazen hand was stroking him through his pants, the blushing responses he pulls out of me are ridiculous. What happens if we have sex? Spontaneous combustion?

  “If you would’ve blushed like that when you asked me, I definitely would’ve obliged.”

  “You’re crazy.” I laugh, and then abruptly stop once visuals of him naked blaze into my dirty mind. I can’t deny the curiosity that revolves around seeing Dylan in that state. Hell yes, I want to see him naked. I’m a little disappointed in myself for being too drunk to reach that point last night. Shaking my head, I dislodge the filthy thoughts.

  “I’m not sure how Americans apologize, but in England and France, we generally expect the whole getting on your knees and begging for forgiveness bit. It’s the only way to prove the apology is heartfelt.”

  Not only is Dylan a little cocky, now he’s acting like I should be groveling for his forgiveness. Cheeky English bastard.

  I point an index finger at him. “And I thought you were a lot nicer than your brother . . .”

  “Believe me, I’m way nicer and more well-mannered than my brother. He can be quite the sod when he wants to be.”

  I’m guessing sod is like the American equivalent of bastard. “Yeah, I found out he can be quite the arse,” I add jokingly. “I’ll say that getting asked for I.D. at your family’s pub was an interesting way to meet your brother.”

  Dylan shakes his head, seemingly not surprised by Jesse’s behavior. “Since I’m showing you just how nice I can be, I’ll accept your silent apology for taking that picture without my permission. I know, deep down, you’re truly sorry.” He winks.

  “Yeah, I’m real sorry.” I scratch my cheek with my middle finger.

  Dylan laughs and then takes a sip of tea. My eyes can’t help but watch his full lips curl around the cup. “So back to those lyrics you just sang, which you delivered quite beautifully, in fact, why did you choose those?” He takes another drink.

  “Hmmm . . .” I look away from his curious gaze, my brain busy replaying the lyrics, and striving to find the right words. And then it comes to me in a rush of thoughts and words and visuals. “I feel like those lyrics are saying, no matter what you’re doing, no matter what you’re trying to do, even if you’re creating a huge fucking mess in the process, just work to turn it into something positive.” I sit up in my seat, leaning closer to Dylan.

  “It’s probably not even what the song is about or why it was written, but I don�
��t know, the words just scream, You can always do it.” My hands move and gesticulate as I continue to explain. “I think it might be one of the best verses The Kills have ever written. I hear it, and automatically think . . . Screw it, I’m going to amount to something. I’m going to fix this. Even though I feel like I ruined everything, I’ll fix it. I’ll make something positive out of this.” I inhale a deep breath, my lungs finally catching up with my rambling mouth.

  He’s grinning at me, and I can’t decide what has him so entertained.

  “What?” I ask, tilting my head in confusion, and flushing a little from the idea that he might actually be laughing at me.

  “You’re bloody adorable,” he says.

  My cheeks grow hotter, which only spurs more soft chuckles from his lips.

  “I love how passionate you are about music. It’s sexy as hell.” He reaches out, brushing a thumb across my cheek. “And I love this fucking blush of yours. I want to put you in my pocket and carry you around . . .” he pauses. “I’m coming off a little barmy, aren’t I?”

  “Join the fucking club with the putting me in your pocket concept, and barmy? What does that mean?”

  “Crazy,” he interprets.

  “Seriously, I’m going to need to buy a British slang translation book just so I can understand half the things that come out of your mouth.”

  He grins.

  My stomach growls and I give in to the scrumptious, sweet treats sitting in front of me. I pick out a pastry that looks like a croissant, but it’s covered in a sugary glaze and sprinkled with tiny red candies. Once it reaches my lips, I have to fight back the moan that wants to fly out of my mouth. It’s that good. I’ve been in Paris for nearly two weeks, had pastries every single day . . . how did I miss these things?

  “Good?”

  “So good,” I purr like a smitten kitten, which is weird because I’ve always been more of a dog person. “What is this? I think I need to order a year’s supply to send back home.”

  “Croissant Ispahan. Those little fuckers are hard to get your hands on. If you’re not walking through a patisserie’s doors when they first open, I guarantee there’ll be none left, especially on a weekend.”