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)
“Do you have a voice like that in the shower too, or is it just for Montmartre?” I ask as we pass the musicians.
She laughs, batting at my arm. “Cheeky. It’s just for Paris. You’ll have to earn a private performance elsewhere.”
“Challenge accepted.”
Eventually, we reach the Place du Tertre, the square where Montmartre artists display their work. The square is buzzing with color, chatter, and the aroma of street food, the sweetness of crepes, and the saltiness of fresh fries in paper cones. Artists sit on fold away stools, sketching or painting, tourists meander around with cameras. Musicians play lively tunes that carry across the square. Jo glances around, her eyes wide, drinking it all in.
“This is insane. I love it.”
“I thought you’d like it here,” I say as I steady her on the cobblestones. “It’s chaotic and vibrant, like someone captured a heartbeat.”
She looks at me. “You’re full of metaphors today, aren’t you?”
“Only for you,” I declare.
She laughs softly, shaking her head, but I see it - the slight darkening in her eyes, the warmth spreading across her cheeks. We wander past the artists, peeking into tiny galleries, smelling the faint scents of oil and canvas. Our voices blend with the chatter and music, playful, teasing, intimate. At some point, we start bumping elbows intentionally, laughing at how absurdly close we’ve gotten.
“You know,” I remark as we pass a small fountain. “I thought we were coming to Paris to catch a thief. Instead, I’ve found a whole new adventure.”
Her eyes dance with happiness. “Good. That means you’re ready for Sacré-Cœur”
I realize that I would follow her anywhere right now. Even to the top of Sacré-Cœur, which looms above the square, waiting for us to tackle it.
The climb is steep, the cobblestones replaced with stone steps that curve like a spiral up the hill. Occasionally, Jo leans into me for balance. I luxuriate in the feeling of protecting her and that delicious tension between us.
“Slow down, Axel,” she huffs, laughing. “I only have short legs, you know.”
“They didn’t feel short last night when I opened them wide and ate you out,” I say as we pass a wrought iron railing.
She shoots me an outraged look. “Oh, I’ll get even with you for that. Just you wait.”
I grin. “Can’t wait.”
By the time we reach the lookout spot, the city spreads beneath us in a glittering patchwork of roof tops, bridges, and winding streets. Jo gasps, leaning against the railing, as we take in the view together.
“You see,” I murmur, my voice low, my words just for her. “This is what I mean. Paris is magnificent, but it’s nothing compared to …”
She interrupts me with a nudge. “Compared to me? Axel, you’re such a flatterer.”
“I was going to say compared to Rome, but we can go with you too,” I say.
I try to keep a straight face, but Jo looks so shocked I can’t help but laugh. Then she joins me, our laughs mingling and going out into the city together. We stand there for a while looking out over the city, with the afternoon sun painting everything gold. The laughter and hum of chatter and the music from the square below drifts up to us. I feel electricity between us, and I know this is the moment where everything feels possible, where a glance, a touch, a shared breath could tilt everything.
And I think, not for the first time today, that I don’t want it to end.
Chapter
Thirty
AXEL
The afternoon sun is softer now, the mellow gold light spilling across the rooftops as we leave Montmartre behind, descending the winding streets and making our way back towards central Paris. I glance at Jo as we walk. Her stride is effortless, and I feel an unfamiliar tight twist inside me. This woman is going to be the making of, or my undoing. Maybe both. She’s radiant in the kind of way that makes the city itself feel like it’s competing with her glow and losing.
“So, next stop,” I say, linking my fingers through hers, letting my thumb brush across her knuckles. “The Jardin du Palais-Royal. It’s quiet, understated and elegant. Perfect for wandering.”
“Lead the way, Monsieur,” she says playfully, looking up at me with a half-smile.
The Palais-Royal is exactly what I promised. It’s serene, classical, and almost too quiet compared to the bustling streets we’ve left behind. The courtyard opens into a lattice of colonnades and stone archways. The gardens themselves are a study in cultivated calm. Fountains spill silver water into stone basins, statues gaze silently at us from shaded groves, and marble benches tucked beneath trimmed trees offer the perfect refuge. Jo inhales audibly, taking in the scene beside me.
“Wow, you weren’t kidding when you said it’s elegant,” she whispers, as if afraid to speak too loudly and disturb the tranquility of the place. “It’s so quiet.”