by Scott, S. L.
Outside, we cross the street to the Tuileries Garden. I only know this because I have my own personal tour guide showing me all the statues she loves like Standing Woman. “Gaston Lachaise was an American.” I’m elbowed. “Like you,” she says with a smile.
“And you.” I nudge right back.
She laughs. “Sometimes I forget. When you spend as much time as I do trying to blend in, you start to become a ghost of yourself.” Touching the small waist of the statue, she adds, “Such a dramatic ratio to hips. Don’t you think?”
Shrugging, I reply, “I guess.”
“What do you see when you look at her, Bennett?”
Taking my time, my gaze swings between the statue and the woman beside it. “I see a woman who has desires and dreams but doesn’t need someone else to fulfill them.”
“I wish I could see her through your eyes.”
“You can. Just close them.” Her gaze hits me, and a scoff escapes. She’s not very trusting, which is understandable since I’m still . . . well, I’m not sure what I am to her. “Just do it.”
Huffing, she concedes. “Fine.”
When she closes her eyes, I shift her gently in front of me and then pull her wrists slowly to her sides. She sucks in an audible breath, her back pressed to my front. She’s soft in my rough hands and small against my large frame. I lean down to her ear, and whisper, “What do you see?”
“It’s not what I see.” There’s an unfamiliar tremble to her tone. “It’s what I feel.”
“What do you feel, Winter?”
“Hope.”
I inhale her perfumed neck, running the bridge of my nose along her silky skin. I’m tempted to kiss her, but instead, I ask, “Who stole your hope?”
She moves away, and the cold of the day invades. Her fingers slide across her forehead as she paces. The severity of her distress hits me when she looks at me. “I . . . I tell you what I can, Bennett. The rest is just . . .” She crosses her arms over her chest, staring across the gardens. “Sometimes bad people have good intentions.”
“Are you a bad person, Winter?”
“I’m trying to make things right.”
“For who? Yourself? Someone else?”
“For everyone.” She starts walking but turns back. “This way. I want to show you the Rodin.”
And we’re back to being practically strangers again. I follow her, keeping my pace a few safe steps behind her, giving her space, the distance I think will comfort her instead of me invading it. But she stops, silently waiting.
Her arm wraps around mine, and we walk the rest of the way entangled together like any other couple in the gardens today. I don’t understand her. Complicated doesn’t seem to fit how she twists my mind. I look into her sapphire eyes, knowing that’s all I’ll probably get. It’s more than she wanted to give, so I consider that a win, a victory for today. With that small taste of who she really is, I’m already craving so much more.
I didn’t catch a flight back to New York like I was supposed to. I stayed because this trip no longer feels like a contractual obligation but a personal mission. I’ve never been drawn to anyone like I am to her. Even now when we stand next to a work of art, I can’t take my eyes off her.
I may not know much about art, but I know if it moves you, it’s to be admired. And damn, do I admire her.
“The Kiss,” she says, her voice steady as if anchored in tranquil seas. “I dream of being kissed like this one day.” She’s too careful, struggling not to look for me as if I’m meant to be by her side.
I take the silent cue not only because she wants me to but also because I want to. Her shoulder presses against the front of mine. Her breathing steadies as if I’m the calm she needs. When she closes her eyes, I ask, “What do you feel, Winter?”
“Alive.” I want to kiss her because I’ve never felt more alive than right here at this moment. I take things slow and kiss the spot just under her earlobe. Her hand holds me there before she angles into me, and says, “I can’t.”
7
Winter
I’m not in Paris to fall in love, like, or lust.
But that doesn’t stop my heart from beating a little faster around Bennett Everest. I feel too much too soon for this man. I can search his name online as much as I want, but nothing prepared me for spending time with him firsthand.
Charming.
Funny.
Handsome. Very.
Great style.
Intelligent. Quick to pick up on wordplay.
Kind enough to let it go.
I’d forgotten the feel of caring hands, and what it’s like to have someone listen rather than talk at me. Or shout.
I wonder if I’ve become complacent to the danger I’m in. I’ve become numb to taking precautions. I used to look over my shoulder every step I took. Now I brazenly step out with a man as if he won’t notice. I hope he doesn’t.
Just in case, I walk away, rounding the statue, and pretend to admire the details of the sculpted bronze when all I want to do is sneak peeks at the man who seems to have come out of nowhere and made an unbearable situation more tolerable.
Bennett will leave any day, and I’ll be left to endure this alone, watched like prey until the day comes when I have to play the part he commands of me.
Lure.
Deliver.
Walk away.
Job done. Then I’ll be set free. I hope.
I wonder if Bennett will still be single. He’s too good of a catch, but maybe I can look him up when I’m back in New York City. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy him where I’m held captive. It’s sad how low my expectations in life have become. But it’s better not to hope than to feel utter disappointment. “What do you feel?” I ask.
Bennett changes as the hours tick by. As his comfort with me grows, his affection becomes more conspicuous. Leaning to the side, he sees me and smiles. What a deliciously devilish smile it is, too. “Lonely. Come keep me company.”
I can’t hide the smile he evokes as I come back and stand with him in front of the statue again. With my feet slipping between his, I start thinking about what it would be like to kiss those delectable lips. Would he embrace me like Paolo does Francesca in the statue—with passion, as if they might only ever have this one kiss? If it can’t last a lifetime, can the memory carry the torch of their desire?
A high-pitched scream startles us, and we jump back from each other. A little girl with brown pigtails and an ice-cream cone turns red in the face and then screams again, this time followed by crocodile tears. Her mother rushes to her, griping about dropping the ice cream like she warned her not to do. Squatting down so she’s eye-level, she wipes her tears and hugs her.
My heart shifts gears from racing to clenching, my mood souring just as quickly. “Could we go? Please?”
“Are you okay?”
I feel the prick of tears as the cold air hits me. “Fine. I’ll be fine.”
His hand is warm, so warm, defrosting my chilling heart and stopping me before I can get too far.
Compassionate.
“Winter, talk to me. What’s wrong?”
“Talk to you,” I repeat quietly to myself. I can still hear the little girl’s sobs though they’ve lessened against her mom’s shoulder. “That’s not something ever asked of me since my mother died.” The straighter corners of his shoulders round as they bear the weight of my confession. Shit. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Why? Why is that something you should have to hold in?”
I like the concern that shines in his eyes. He cares. He doesn’t even know me, yet he’s showing more empathy than I’ve ever received. I could eat up the attention, losing my better judgment in the spoils of his kindness, and then leave him burning in the ashes of the betrayal. “You could become very addicting, Mr. Everest.”
The right side of his mouth rises as the darkness of the pupils overtake the golden of his eyes, shamelessly drinking me in. Men can do that. They can wield their desires like a sword through innocent f
lesh and walk away unscathed from the battle. “And that’s a bad thing?”
I’ve fought so hard to be seen as an equal to my brother and never was, but here stands this stranger serving it up on a silver platter and looking at me like I can be anything I want to be. He’s willing to relent the difference in height to treat me as an equal. “It’s too good.”
“We’re in Paris. If we can’t indulge in the City of Love, where can we?”
Tapping him on the chest, I reply, “Bonne remarque.”
“And that means?”
“That means good point. We should get a coffee and éclairs before continuing our adventure. Oui?”
“Oui,” he replies, “I’m starving.”
“Come on. Let’s feed you.”
* * *
Sitting inside the cozy patisserie, we’ve finished our treats, and our cups are empty. Chatter doesn’t fill every minute with him, but I like how easy it is to be with him. “You never told me how long you’ll be in Paris.”
He nods, looking down at his watch as if he’s late and has to dash out the door. “I shouldn’t be here now.”
“What does that mean?”
“I was ordered back to the States yesterday.”
“Ordered? Why?”
“Because my brother, the CEO, thinks I’m on a fool’s mission.”
“Are you?”
The intensity of his glare, the fixed gaze on me, stills me in my chair. “I hope not.”
“What are you going to tell him?”
“That I needed to stay.”
“Why did you stay, Mr. Everest?”
“I think you know.” He moves his chair around to sit closer. “Is it bad that I want to kiss you right here in a dessert shop?”
“It’s a bakery.”
“Does it matter?”
“The kiss or the French word?”
He leans in, and I don’t move a millimeter in my seat. I don’t breathe. I just wait for his heat, his lips on me, his . . . My eyes fly open. “Did you just lick me?”
“I did. You had a little chocolate right there.” His lips press to my cheek, and even though it’s not where I want him to be, I’ll take anything he’ll give me because it feels so nice. And then I push him away playfully.
“You’re silly.”
“You need some silly in your life.”
I think I might need more of him in my life. Reaching over, I take his elbow and pull him in again. With our faces just a few inches apart, I ask, “Did you stay for me?”
“I did,” he whispers, “so let’s make the most of it. I have two days.”
“To live like you were never supposed to stay? I can work with that and make it so you never regret a single minute.”
I’m tempted to kiss him, so tempted, but I don’t. He’s become the master of the tease, and I’m starting to enjoy the game. I lick my lips with his eyes glued to the small action and then stand abruptly. “Well, come on,” I say, “we don’t have time to lose.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Such a Southern gentleman.”
“How’d you know I was from the South?” he asks as we walk toward the door. “Oh, right. You looked me up.”
Oh, no. I’ve really screwed up. “Actually,” I stumble over my words, trying to find something to land on. “You have an accent, Bennett. I’m from Manhattan. You may live in New York, but you’re clearly not from there.” I shoulder the door open and smile when I pass.
Happy.
Pure, unadulterated happiness. I can’t recall the last time I felt like this.
The wind whips his musky oceanic scent around me, and I rush to find him. Standing under the burgundy awning with his hands in his pockets, he smiles just from watching me.
Carefree.
I see it in his eyes. Eyes can’t lie.
I feel the same in my heart, letting it fill me and reach my eyes, too. Taking his hand in mine, I caress it, and with my smile too big to hide, I pull him with me as I walk backward. “The city is ours. What do you want to see?”
“I’m seeing all I ever need to of this city.” He’s quick, his arms going around me and pulling me against him. “What could we ever see that beats what’s standing in front of me right now?”
With our bodies pressed together, I slide a hand under his sweater to feel his heart beating. “Yours matches mine.”
He brings my other hand to his lips, kisses it, and says, “Maybe it’s a sign.”
“My mom believed in astrology, karma, and anything else involving a superstition. I gave up believing when she died. Though I still wish upon my necklace like she used to do.”
Holding my hand as he lowers it, he gives it a light squeeze. “Would it be so bad to try to believe again?”
“You make me want to.” A Vespa backfires down the street, bringing me from my daydream. I’m reminded of the little girl crying at the statue and now the scooter. Our bubble popped, an attraction building so fast that it probably would have burst on its own if given enough space and time to grow.
I sigh. Who am I kidding? I don’t understand this attraction. And fear seeps back in. What if spending time with me puts Bennett in the crosshairs of him? He’s almost too good to be true.
“You’ve gone quiet.” And very perceptive.
“I . . . probably shouldn’t make any commitments.” Not wanting to seem too unstable, I add, “You know . . . being unavailable and all.”
“You’re a very quirky woman.”
“I prefer unpredictable.”
“That you are. But it’s not bad to rely on something.”
We start walking slowly at first as if the direction doesn’t matter. Does it?
“My father once told me to be the hare. That, in real life, the tortoise would always lose.”
“It sounds like you were caught in the middle.”
“Caught between a dreamer and a realist. My dad was right.” He keeps his gaze directed ahead, but he’s not letting go of my hand, and I haven’t pulled away. A squeeze became a safehold that he’s apparently set on protecting.
Less than five hours together and I’m already beginning to feel something for this dark-haired man. How is that possible?
“Do you still talk to him?” The question gives me pause. For the first time since we met, something feels off. I drop my hand to my side and then tuck it into my coat pocket. It’s noticed, and he’s quick to add, “I’ve overstepped. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“You didn’t offend me, Bennett. It’s just an odd question. Why wouldn’t I be talking to my dad?” This is how I should reply even if it is a lie. “Wouldn’t he worry about his daughter?” Is my father capable of worrying about someone he can’t even say I love you to?
“I’m sure he does, but is there a reason he should?”
Yes.
He’d be furious at what I’ve done to protect him, but I didn’t do it to go against his wishes. I did it to save the Nobleman legacy. I pivot the conversation. “My brother, Braden, on the other hand . . . he hates me. Once my mother died, we ceased being civil to each other.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I don’t want to think of what’s to come, or the price I’m paying for diving into the deep end, thinking I could swim with sharks. “Let’s talk about other things. We only have two days, and my mom used to say that when you’re with good company, it isn’t about the destination.”
The pressure releases from his expression, and he smiles. “Let’s make it an incredible journey.”
“There’s so much to do. What do you want to start with?” He caresses my cheek, but before he speaks, I laugh. “I know where this is going, so let me rephrase that. What touristy thing would you like to see first?”
“I think I preferred the first offer.”
“I just bet you do.”
“How about you show me everything you love?”
“A man who lets a woman lead. You’re a breath of fresh air, Monsieur Everest.”
> “As are you, ma chérie.”
8
Winter
It feels like I’ve been here forever, stuck in a city I never asked to visit. The option to talk to my family was taken away with one threat; that which would end my father’s life and ultimately mine for causing his death. It doesn’t matter how much I try to hate him for his lack of love for me, he’s still my father, the only parent I have left. I like to believe he would never intentionally hurt me, so it’s easier to blame my gender for his disinterest in welfare.
A whisper tickles my ear, and Bennett asks, “How does it make you feel?”
I like that he cares enough to wonder about me. I felt uncomfortable when he asked me about my father, but then I somehow started talking about my mother and memories I haven’t recalled in so long but seemed to come back as if they were yesterday. As if eighteen years haven’t passed since she left me. I didn’t know what to say because I can’t tell him the truth.
We’re in the early stages of what feels like something new—a new relationship, a new beginning, a new chance at love. A newness that blankets me like a cashmere sweater, feeling so good I don’t want to take it off. “At peace,” I reply.
I hate how much my answer exposes me, but that’s what happens when someone tempts you to let your guard down while also providing a safety net as you’re trying new things. And Bennett Everest is definitely something new I want to try. Leaning the side of my head against his, I whisper, “How does it make you feel?”
“Small.”
“I get what you mean. I’ve seen the Water Lilies paintings online, on postcards, and on TV so often that I felt it might even be disappointing when I finally saw them in person the first time. But they’re not.”
“No, they’re not. They’re incredible like you.”
“You’re pulling out all the stops, Mr. Everest.”
“When I go after something, or someone,” he says, coming to stand at my side, “I always give one hundred and ten percent. Because if it’s worth going after in the first place, it’s worth giving it your all.”
