Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 75783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
I know he means it. For the first time in a long time, I fall asleep in Dawson’s arms entirely at peace. I don’t even have a nightmare when I’m with him. Everything feels like it’s falling in its perfect place.
Epilogue
Dawson
I wake up to soft rays of sunlight filtering through the gauzy curtains in our penthouse. Paris has been a big change for Harper and me, but a much-needed one. Since being here, any fear and anxiety that Harper still had lingering in her system has disappeared. It’s like she’s a new person entirely.
She’s still asleep, breathing softly against the comforter she has nestled against her face to keep her nose warm. Even though the nights here in Paris have been cold, she always wants to sleep with the windows open. She swears the air here just smells different. I do what she says because it makes her happy. I only ever want to see her happy.
I kiss her gently on the forehead, brushing a few strands of blonde hair from her face before gently climbing out of bed and heading to the kitchen. Life moves slower here. I still have work to do. Harper still has art school. But there isn’t the same rush there was in Los Angeles.
Neither of us has to run around and hurry to turn reports or homework in on time. We’ve only been here for three months, and after we leave at the end of the year, I’m going to miss it. Sure, it’ll be nice to go home to familiarity. But there’s a comfort here neither of us can ignore.
I put a kettle on the stove to heat up some water for coffee as I prepare our breakfast. I know once I pour the water over the coffee, Harper will miraculously smell it and wake up to have her morning cup with me before we head our separate ways for the day.
While the water boils, I heat both of us up a buttery croissant from the bakery down the street we both love. We always have these in stock at the penthouse. That’s one thing I’ll miss when we leave.
I lean against the counter and think about everything on my agenda for the day. Harper usually likes to stay informed about these things, but there’s something I haven’t told her I have to do today. I might have promised her that I would never lie again, but she’ll understand why I didn’t tell her about this later.
Footsteps patter along the wooden floorboards, and I stand up straighter when I hear Harper on her way. All she’s wearing is an oversized button-up shirt I tore off last night before we made love. There’s nothing sexier than seeing the woman you love wearing your shirt first thing in the morning, her hair all messy from sleep. It’s a sight I can only hope I get to see every day.
“Morning,” Harper groggily says as she leans against the counter and watches the kettle boil.
“Morning,” I say as I move in to kiss her. It’s a brief kiss, and she shakes her head, letting me know she hasn’t brushed her teeth yet. I couldn’t care less.
I kiss her harder, and when she eventually pulls away, she laughs to herself, and a wide, loving smile colors her face.
I tuck the memory away with all the others I have of Harper smiling and laughing. I practically have an entire bank vault in my mind, saved with similar things.
“Why don’t you go take a seat on the balcony and let me serve you breakfast?” I ask as she turns around and saunters across the room to open the French doors out toward the balcony. Less than 500 feet away from us is the Eiffel Tower.
Birds chirp outside, and the smell of fresh autumn air wafts through the penthouse. It’s something I don’t think we’ll ever get tired of.
When the coffee and croissants are ready, I carry everything out to the balcony on a tray and take a seat across from Harper as both of us put milk in our coffee and bite into our pastries.
“What’s on your schedule for today?” I ask her, knowing she’s coming up on the end of her school semester. It’s her sophomore year, and she’s finally taking classes dedicated toward crafting her art rather than studying the art of old dead people.
“I have a practicum for sketching,” Harper says, squinting her eyebrows as she thinks. “The assignment is to just walk around and find some kind of landscape to draw a sketch of. I was thinking of going to Parc Monceau after breakfast.”
Over the past several months in Paris, I’ve watched how her art has transformed. She draws a lot more than portraits of creatures and monsters now. There’s a lightness in her work that wasn’t there before. There’s joy in it.