Chasing Fate

by Rachael Brownell

  "I would never let that happen. So, how long before our flight leaves?"

  "Ninety minutes or so. Why?"

  "Because we're in coach again, and that's not happening. Let's go see about an upgrade. Then, we need to find a private bathroom. I need to have my way with you. It's been six days too long."

  "Five days," I say, correcting him.

  "Six," he retorts. "I know the last time I was inside you, Jessa. Trust me."

  His stare causes me to shudder. When the bartender approaches, I'm thankful for the reprieve. I'm starting to get hot and bothered just thinking about being with Jackson right now.

  There's not one single private bathroom in the entire airport. As much as I want to engage in inappropriate activities with Jackson right now, we don't have an option. He suggested joining the mile-high club, but I want no part of that. I've been inside those bathrooms. I don't like to sit on the seat, let alone get butt naked in that tiny-ass stall. We're going to have to wait until we get to Paris.

  What I failed to realize when I shot him down for airplane bathroom sex was that the flight was thirteen hours long, including a two-hour layover. Now, we're arriving at our hotel and the last thing on my mind is sex. I want to crawl into bed, block out the daylight shining in the windows, and sleep until tomorrow.

  Our flight left at six o'clock last night. With the travel time and the time change, it's midafternoon right now. Jackson slept like a log for most of the ride over the Atlantic in fact. Me? I didn't sleep a wink. Normally, it's not an issue for me to sleep on the plane. I'm not sure why my brain wouldn't shut down last night. I really wish it had.

  Our room is less than satisfactory in Jackson's eyes. Leaving me alone is a bad idea; he knows this, but does it anyway. Ten minutes later, just as I'm about to fall asleep lying on top of the covers, he returns. He's upgraded our room. Why? I'm not sure. We're going to be here for two weeks, and I don't plan on spending that much time in the room. I want to see the city, explore. Paris has been on my list of places to visit since I was a little girl.

  "We needed a better view," he says when I protest changing rooms.

  "Why? We're going to be out all day. The only thing we really need a room for is to sleep in. This one is perfectly fine."

  I can't tell him that I don't have the money to cover a better room for the next thirteen days. I mean, I could, but I don't want to. I'm afraid that if I start mentioning money, he'll start paying more than he already has. The trip to the spa was wonderful, but I don't want him spending all his money on me. He works hard for that money, just like I worked hard for the money I saved up for this.

  He's not giving me a choice, though, and the subject isn't worth fighting over. I'll figure out the money situation somehow. Once we're back in the states, I'll sell a few stocks or something. I wasn't planning on touching those unless I had to.

  After dropping our bags in the new room, Jackson insists we get food. He doesn't even give me a moment to enjoy the breathtaking view I'm sure is costing me a fortune. He's probably afraid that if he doesn't keep me moving, I'll fall asleep standing still. He's right to be concerned.

  I'm not sure what it is with him and food. He loves to eat and try new things. When I think French food, my mind goes directly to fries. Aware they are actually an American food, I wonder what Jackson has in store for our first meal here. We don't walk far, thankfully, and arrive at a little cafe only a few minutes from the hotel.

  It's perfect. Sure, you can tell it's been there for a while. The furniture isn't brand new, and the paintings on the wall are dusty, but the ambiance is divine. This may be a regular destination for us if the food is good.

  The first thing Jackson does is order us a bottle of wine. In French. My jaw drops open when I realize I can't understand a word he's saying to the waiter. My man knows French. It sounds like he speaks it fluently, and it's sexy as hell.

  I'm not a wine connoisseur, but I will say the rich, sweet red was amazing. Better than any other red wine I've tried. Apparently, he not only knows a different language, he knows his wine, as well.

  The appetizer, which looked like cheese melted onto toasted bread, was delicious. It was called Fromage something, which, according to Jackson, means it's a blend of leftover cheeses. Judging by the rich, creamy color, my standard American and cheddar cheeses were not in the mixture.

  I asked Jackson to order my meal, explaining that I wanted something I knew I would like. He's teaching me to be adventurous with food, getting me excited about trying new things, but with wine and cheese in my belly already, exhaustion is starting to set in, and I want to make sure I can stomach what they bring me.

  When a generous square of lasagna is placed in front of me, I smile. My mother makes the best, the recipe handed down from generation to generation. I’ve tried, on more than one occasion, to replicate it, but each time I've fallen short. It always tastes good, just not like my mother's. One day I'll figure it out.

  Jackson ordered himself pasta, too. His has what looks like a pesto sauce served over traditional spaghetti noodles. He offers me a bite, but I decline, my mouth already full of the lasagna. When I don't offer him some, he takes it upon himself to reach over the table and get it himself.

  Italian food in Paris. I'm not complaining. It was exquisite. We are definitely going back there before we leave. It's just not what I was expecting for our first night here. I assumed Jackson would have sought out a place that served traditional French food. Maybe he's saving that for tomorrow. Maybe he wasn't interested in walking any further. Either way, we're both happy and full.

  Back at the room, Jackson seems to take notice of the fact that I'm struggling to stay awake. Being the amazing person that he is, he suggests we stay in and relax for the rest of the evening. The sun is going to set soon, the lights on the Tower will come alive, and the city itself will take on a different feeling. There's a sitting area near the window. I plan to migrate over there shortly and watch everything unfold. Until then, the couch is my spot.

  Handing me the remote, I'm instructed to find a movie for us to watch. As soon as I turn the TV, on I hear water running in the bathroom. Assuming he's jumping in the shower while I browse the selection, I ignore it. That's when I smell a lilac scent wafting from the bathroom. As my curiosity sets in, Jackson walks back in the room, a white bathrobe in one hand.

  "Your bath awaits, madam," he says, holding the robe open for me.

  Laughing, I jump off the couch and into his arms. Kissing him lightly on the lips, I strip out of my clothes as quickly as possible and let him wrap me in the soft cotton. Leading me into the bathroom, I find a bunch of candles lit around the room as well as a steamy bath waiting for me. Knowing that he's not going to join me unless I ask, I turn my head, looking at him over my shoulder, and drop my robe.

  Standing bare in front of him for the first time in a week, I nod my head toward the tub. Without a word, he strips and climbs in first, holding his hand out to help me step in after he's settled. This tub isn't nearly as big as the one in the Bahamas was, but it's still large enough for the both of us to fit comfortably.

  "Is this how you imagined your first night in Paris?" he asks after we've been soaking for a few minutes. I'm on the verge of passing out from the warmth of the water or the comfort of his arms. I can't decide which is more amazing right now.

  "No. I figured I'd be out running around the city, unable to sleep because I was overly excited. I'm glad we're here for a while. I needed today to recover from traveling. Hopefully, I won't be this tired when we make it to our next destination."

  "Where are we headed next?" he asks.

  "I thought you saw my list."

  "I did. A month ago. If you would be so kind as to show me again, I might have an idea of where we're headed."

  "Nope. I guess you're just going to have to be surprised then."

  "That's not going to work for me, Jessa. For two reasons. One, I need to purchase a plane ticket. Two, I don't really like surprises." />
  Taking his hand in mine, I slip it under the water. Placing it on the bare skin above my entrance, I attempt to make my point without saying anything. His body reacts instantly.

  "Not all surprises are bad, Jackson."

  He doesn't respond but he doesn't need to. He understands perfectly. I'll tell him tomorrow where we're headed. The sooner he can buy a ticket, the cheaper it should be. As for giving him another glimpse at my list, that's not going to happen. He's going to learn to love surprises. Well, most surprises at least.

  He's enjoying his first surprise right now. His fingers are tracing circles around my entrance, making me squirm. I know what he wants, and even though I'm tired, I want it, too. Leaning back into him, I open my legs as wide as I can and he takes full advantage.

  Five minutes later, I’m gripping the edge of the tub while screaming his name. Jackson is behind me, panting. He hasn't gotten his yet, but I plan to change that. Shifting slightly, I move into his lap and give him what he wants. Me. And he can have me, as much as he wants for as long as he wants.

  Chapter 8

  #4 Visit the Eiffel Tower in Paris, France

  Finally. I'm bouncing up and down as I wait for Jackson to finish in the shower. Today is the day. We're headed to the Eiffel Tower. It's day three of our trip, and I'm getting impatient. Seeing the Eiffel Tower is the entire reason I put Paris on the list. I purchased our tickets this morning online. We're scheduled to take a tour at eleven o'clock. No matter how quickly he gets ready, we still have time before we'll be able to get inside.

  We were planning on going yesterday, but it rained. For hours. I finally gave in and let Jackson take me to a museum instead. That wasn't on my list, and I didn't add it. Art is one thing I've never fully understood. Sure, the painting is pretty, the colors are vibrant, but please don't ask me what I think about it. I'll never understand the message the artist was trying to convey.

  Not. My. Thing.

  It is Jackson’s, however. He had an opinion on almost every piece of art in the entire museum. We spent almost four hours there. The four longest hours of my life. For him, I would do it again, though. He's done nothing but cater to me this entire trip since we left home for New York. I owe him more than four hours of looking at art. I owe him weeks of things he enjoys.

  I'm learning more and more about him every day. At dinner the other night, when he shocked me by speaking with the waiter in French, I found out he took four years in high school and minored in French in college. He was going to apply for a study abroad program but didn't want to delay graduating by an entire year. He's dreamed of coming to Paris for years.

  Yesterday, at the museum, I found out that if he hadn't studied exercise science, he was considering teaching, specializing in art for elementary students. Those kids would have been lucky. He was patient with me when I didn't understand the artwork and knowledgeable when I asked questions. I'm still not interested in learning more about art, but I found it fascinating how much he knew.

  "I'm almost ready," Jackson calls from the bedroom.

  "Hurry up. I want to stop for breakfast on our way there. What are you in the mood for?"

  "Anything. Why don't we try that little food cart we saw on the corner yesterday? The crepes they were selling smelled amazing."

  "I don't know, Jackson. A street cart?"

  Walking around the corner, his jeans still unbuttoned and his shirt in his hand, he looks at me curiously. "Why not?"

  "Are you sure the food is safe? I don't want to get sick,” I say, wondering if there even legal.

  "Yes, the food is safe. We saw them all over New York City, and you wouldn't let me stop and get anything, even though we were both hungry. It's time you let loose a little, Jessa."

  "Fine, but if we get sick, it's your fault," I sass.

  "I'll take care of you," he replies, taking a step in my direction as he tosses his shirt over the back of the couch. I see the change in his eyes, the grin on his face, and I know I'm in trouble.

  "Jackson," I say, taking a step back. "You need to get dressed. We're both starving, and I want to get going."

  "I'm hungry, all right. One little taste is all I'll need to make the cravings go away. I promise."

  He had a taste an hour ago before I took a shower. This man is insatiable sometimes.

  "No. Feed me first."

  Stopping dead in his tracks, he smiles at me, but I can tell he's disappointed. "Okay, let's go, then. I'm hungry for more than food, and if I have to wait until we get back, we need to get a move on."

  We stop at the first food cart we see. Jackson orders us each a crepe, which looks a lot like a thin pancake rolled around some type of creamy filling. Waiting until he takes his first bite, I follow suit.

  Sweet strawberries and rich cream cheese awaken my taste buds. It's delicious.

  "This is going on the list," I say.

  #16 Eat food from a street vendor

  "Is that your way of admitting I was right?"

  "Nope." Well, sort of, but I don't want to admit it.

  Smirking at me, Jackson takes my free hand and pulls me down the sidewalk. We walk in silence, nibbling on our food, as we check out the city. Every restaurant and shop we pass intrigues me. I pull him into a few places, mainly clothing stores after we finish our breakfast.

  Modeling a few outfits for him, I run numbers in my head. I budgeted money specifically to be spent on shopping. If I rewrite the budget, lowering it, I should be able to cover the difference in the hotel cost. As long as Jackson doesn't upgrade anything else while we're traveling, which, I have a feeling he will. I went for cost savings when I booked my flights and rooms. Budget friendly deals. I was lucky enough to snag great hotels, but I wasn't planning on paying for the view from the room when I could walk outside and enjoy it for myself.

  Four shops and one sweater later, we're finally standing close enough to the Eiffel Tower that I have to crane my neck to see the very top. It's breathtaking. Pulling out my phone, I force Jackson to take a few pictures of me, and then a few selfies of us together. He's not one for being in front of the camera. He won't even let me take a picture of him standing with the tower.

  "Is it time yet?" I ask, walking toward the Tower.

  "We have half an hour. What do you want to do until then?"

  "I want to go inside."

  "And since we can't yet..." his voice trails off. “What about the carousel? Wanna take a ride to pass the time?"

  "Will you sit in a car with me, instead of getting on one of the horses?"

  "Yeah," he says curiously.

  "I figure it will keep us both warmer if we sit closer," I explain.

  There isn't a line, nor are there very many people on the carousel. I would have preferred to visit Paris in the spring when the weather didn't require me to wear a warm coat, gloves, and a scarf. After spending two weeks in the Bahamas, it feels like torture to have to put so many layers on.

  My cheeks are numb by the time the carousel comes to a stop. Asking Jackson for the time, I'm relieved to find out our tour should be starting in about ten minutes. Looking up at the Tower, I'm excited to both see it up close and be sheltered from the cold.

  After moving through the security check, we step into the elevator. There are only a few other people in it, but the doors aren't closing. I see a line of people headed toward us and quickly start hitting buttons. Nothing’s happening. They're going to get on the elevator.

  There's not enough room!

  Sliding closer to Jackson and against the back wall, I close my eyes and pray that no one brushes against me. I don't like tight spaces. I'm slightly claustrophobic. Crowds are not my thing.

  As the elevator starts to rise, so does the temperature. It might be the number of bodies crammed in here, or it's the fact that I was freezing when we entered. Either way, I'm starting to sweat, which is making me nauseous.

  "You okay?" Jackson asks.

  "Not really. I feel sick. Are we almost there?"

 
"I'm not sure. Try taking a deep breath and imagine you're lying on the beach, relaxing." His words are soft, spoken only for me to hear. Thinking about the beach, I immediately calm my breathing and do the best I can to relax. It takes a few minutes, but I don't feel like I'm going to puke anymore. The moment I realize it worked, I open my eyes to see that we've arrived.

  Our first stop is the first floor. I've heard there's a section of the floor made of glass. As someone who is afraid of heights, I can't decide if that's thrilling or scary. I think maybe I'll stick to looking ahead at the view of the city. I don't want to start feeling sick again.

  The view is amazing. The one thing I never noticed about Paris is its lack of tall buildings. There are no skyscrapers. You can see for miles from where I'm standing. Pulling Jackson toward one of the viewing scopes, we spend the next twenty minutes looking at as much as we can.

  Moving on, we walk up a set of stairs and continue to head toward the top level. As we explore, I can't help but look out over the city more and more. It's breathtaking. As much as heights scare the crap out of me, I would ride the elevator a hundred times over to be able to see this again. In fact, knowing that I have to ride it back down doesn't bother me at all right now.

  During the walk back to the hotel, all I can think about it the view from the top floor. It was even more amazing than the view from our hotel room of the Tower itself. It’s a sight I will never forget for the rest of my life. That's what makes this trip so amazing. I'm experiencing things and making memories that will last a lifetime. Even long after my memory is gone, I'll have pictures to help me remember.

  "What's on your mind?" Jackson asks as we step into the elevator.

  "A hot shower," I reply, a cool breeze hitting me just as the door closes.

  "I'll warm you up," he suggests.

  Two seconds from a smart-ass retort, I notice a father and his daughter standing on the other side of Jackson. I bite my tongue to prevent the sexual innuendo from slipping out. Realizing what almost happened, he starts laughing next to me until I elbow him in the side.