12
Griffin
We’re friends.
Friends go out for ice cream.
Friends stroll along the narrow streets in the little island in the middle of the river. One friend could stare at another friend as she licks her ice cream like it’s a fucking blow job.
Whoa.
Rewind.
That’s not what friends do.
Friends don’t picture talents with tongues.
But for a moment, I don’t bother trying to trick my mind into being merely mates with Joy. Her tongue strokes across the raspberry ice cream with such lavish attention that I can’t think anything but filthy thoughts. When her lips kiss the scoop, I nearly groan with lust.
She exudes sensuality, and she smells divine. I swear every time I’m with her, a different scent trails in her wake. I have no clue what it is, but today she reminds me of a lush waterfall, and I picture tugging her under it and kissing the hell out of those raspberry lips as the sun warms our skin.
So yeah, it isn’t easy trying to be friends with a girl you want to shag. I swear I can hear Ethan laughing at me. “Good luck with that one,” he’d say with a wink.
Oddly enough, I crack a smile at the imagined retort, laughing softly as we meander past a café where waiters prep for the oncoming dinner rush.
Joy tilts her head to the side, curious. “What’s so funny? Do I have ice cream on my nose?”
My finger makes the most of the opportunity, as I brush it along the tip of her nose. “All gone now.”
“Seriously?”
I shake my head and take another lick of my coconut ice cream. “I was just teasing about the ice cream. Truth be told, I was thinking of something funny.”
“Are you going to share? Or will you keep all your comedy a secret?”
“Just something I imagined my brother saying.”
She arches a brow. “Is he a funny guy?”
My heart squeezes as if I’m being strangled. It’s not that I don’t want to tell Joy; it’s just that I don’t want to ruin this day. A part of me feels guilty for thinking that, but I also know once we open the Pandora’s box of heartbreak—the my brother lost the use of his legs, most of his arms, and he lived like that for three years before dying in the hospital while trying to fight off an infection; I miss him like crazy and now I try to live out all the dreams he was never able to realize conversation—we’ll be venturing into deeper, darker waters.
I want to stay in the shallow end and eat ice cream.
I say he was in my head, before I finish the sentence aloud with, “Very funny.” I change gears. “Now that you’re enjoying the best ice cream in Paris, do you want to hear all about this island’s role in French history?” I sweep my hand out grandly to encompass all of Île de la Cité.
“Ooh, are you going to regale me with tales of Heloise and Abelard? Of the former royal residence turned into a prison during the French Revolution? Or will you show me the statue of Henri IV because for some reason that’s greatly important?”
My eyes widen as I glance at her. “Such sarcasm. I’m ridiculously impressed. I had no idea you had such a store in you.”
She wiggles her eyebrows. “I think it might be the champagne I had at Elise’s.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t save any champagne for me,” I tease.
“Do you like champagne?”
I whisper conspiratorially, “Love it. Maybe even more than a pint. Don’t tell a soul.”
She places one finger on her lips, sealing our little secret. Then she gestures to the buildings and the streets. “Truth be told, I don’t mind those historical details. I’ve studied guidebooks about Paris, and I read about Heloise and Abelard, and I think if some romance writer wants to pen a completely taboo story, she ought to do a modern retelling of a nun falling for a man. Now, that would be risqué.”
I hold my free hand up high, as if I’m lighting up a marquee. “The Vixen Nun. I can see it now.”
“Starring Blaze Dalton as the modern-day monk.”
“I’ve been meaning to tell you that Blaze also moonlights as an actor.”
“Naturally.” She brings the ice cream to her mouth once again and hums her approval after a long, lingering lick.
With the strength of an army, I tear my gaze away. “So, you don’t like traditional tour-guide info?”
“Oh, I do like it, actually. But I like the odd little tidbits even more. In fact, I already went to Notre Dame, but my favorite was the elephant.”
I bring my hand to my heart. “The elephant. Seriously, you need to stop talking right now.”
“Why?”
“If you say anything more, I’ll think you’re perfect.”
She scoffs. “Because I liked an elephant?”
“No. Because you noticed the elephant.”
Joy shrugs as we amble down a cobbled street so picturesque it could be in a movie. Planters hang from window shutters, and an old-fashioned ironwork sign perches above an antique shop. Ivy has had the courtesy to crawl across nearly every building wall. “I like learning about what’s right in front of me, but also what’s undiscovered. However, I suspect you prefer the latter. Why don’t you show me something on the Île de la Cité that I won’t find on every single walking tour? Like that one.” Lowering her voice, she tips her forehead across the street. A man wearing trousers and a short-sleeved white shirt walks backward, talking animatedly to a group of a dozen or so tourists, all snapping pics on mobile phones or cameras as he tells them a story of how Marie Antoinette served time as a prisoner in the Conciergerie.
Nothing wrong with history. I love it. But I also love what’s not in the books.
Evidently, Joy does, too, and this little discovery is like a burst of electricity in my chest. I’m buzzing with awareness and possibility
