Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
“I could get used to this,” I murmur. “Just wandering, looking, not thinking about anything else.”
Axel’s hand brushes against mine… and lingers.
We cross the last span of the bridge and step onto Île Saint-Louis, and the world seems to shift from a modern city to something older with more character. The streets here are narrow, cobbled, and almost silent except for the occasional click of a boot against stone. Each building is a different shade of cream, beige, or ochre, its shutters painted in dusty greens and blues, ivy climbing lazily up the walls. Little balconies overflow with plants, supporting tiny window boxes spilling over with blooms. It feels wonderfully intimate and familiar, like stepping into a favorite storybook.
I wander close to one of the windows of the small shops, a little art gallery tucked into the curve of the street. Inside the glass are hand-painted postcards and delicate prints. Axel leans toward me.
“Pick one of the prints,” he says, a teasing tilt to his lips.
I already know I’ll choose something that reminds me of this morning. “That one,” I say, pointing at a delicate watercolor of the Seine in the morning light.
He nods approvingly, his eyes sparkling. “Excellent taste. Exactly what I would have chosen.”
My chest warms at the compliment.
He goes inside and quickly comes back out with a small striped bag.
Next, we duck into a tiny boutique selling artisanal soaps and candles. The air is scented with lavender, rose, and a faint hint of something earthy I can’t quite place. I think maybe it’s sage. My fingers brush over the soaps, feeling the smooth textures. I pick up a small bar, inhaling the scent of sweet oranges.
“Do you want it?” Axel asks.
I nod, heading for the counter, but he takes it from me.
“It’s on me, but I want you to promise to use some tonight,” Axel says, his eyes suddenly dark with desire.
“I promise. Maybe I’ll even dream of you when I use it.”
He smiles and shakes his head, but I know he’s pleased with my response, as he goes to the counter and pays for the soap.
We leave the boutique and continue down the street until we reach the famous Berthillon ice cream shop. Even at this early hour, there’s a line of people waiting. The tiny bell above the door jingles as we enter, and the smell of fresh cream and sugar envelops us like a big friendly hug. I peer at the display behind the glass, my eyes wide at the vivid colors. I read the flavors from the cards, and I am glad they are written in both French and English. There are pistachio, raspberry, salted caramel, chocolate orange, lavender, praline and so many others, I have to stop. I can’t possibly choose if I take in any more options.
“What are you getting?” I ask him.
He glances at the array and frowns thoughtfully. “Something daring. Something you’ll never expect.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh, is that a challenge?”
He grins. “Maybe. What about you? Are you going safe or wild?”
I consider his question, scanning the tubs again. The lavender calls to me, delicate and unusual, almost ethereal. I think it counts as a wilder choice. It’s not something you see every day.
“Lavender,” I decide.
“We’re going wild, then,” he says, turning toward me with a look that’s half amusement, half admiration. “I like you wild.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” I tease, brushing past him to the counter.
I watch as he makes his choice, noticing his little quirks, like how his fingers tap lightly on the counter as he waits. Finally, we step back outside, cones in hand, the morning sun warming our faces. I take a cautious lick and taste the subtle floral flavor blooming on my tongue. Axel watches me, a grin spreading across his face, before he leans in, mock-serious.
“Your verdict?”
“Surprisingly good. Much better than I imagined,” I say.
I hold the cone up for him to try it. He licks the ice cream cautiously and considers the flavor.
“Well?” I ask.
“It’s … I don’t know. I can’t decide if I like it or not.” He holds his cone out towards me. “Here. Try mine. Salted caramel with a hint of chili.”
I raise an eyebrow, intrigued, and taste it. It is sweet, buttery, with just a faint, thrilling burn at the end.
“Oh. That’s … daring and unexpected.”
His grin widens, triumphant. “You like it?”
I nod. “I do. Maybe I need a little more daring in my life.”
He laughs, the sound rich and warm, carrying across the empty street. “I could definitely arrange that,” he murmurs, his eyes locking on mine. There’s an unspoken promise in the look, a thrill that makes my pulse skip.
We wander further, meandering past tiny book shops and boutiques, the quiet streets make the city feel like it belongs only to us. I notice little details, paint peeling on shutters, a wrought iron balcony with flowers, a bronze statue, the way the sunlight flickers across the cobblestones. Axel notices things too, pointing out a carved door frame here, a hidden fresco there, and I feel a shared sense of discovery between us.