His eyebrows wiggle. “Warm and sweet on my tongue.” He repeats himself in French.
“You have a dirty mind,” I say, pointedly, and now we’re back here again.
“I do. And you do nothing to make it clean.” He winks at me. Then he clears his throat. “But thank you for giving me such a fantastic sensory experience on a Friday night.” He runs his finger down the end of my nose, and I shudder.
That’s not supposed to feel erotic.
That’s not supposed to be sexy.
But he doesn’t tap my nose. He doesn’t squeeze it. He slowly brushes the tip with his finger, and somehow that faintly sexy gesture sends shivers across my skin.
Then, we talk.
As we drink our hot beverages, we chat about the chocolate, the weather, the day, and it’s as if a key in a lock turns just the slightest bit, giving me hope that the door might eventually open for me.
Not today. Not tomorrow. But perhaps soon I might be able to converse in this country’s language without him.
When we finish, Griffin clears the cups and the tray then offers me a hand. We exit, but once we hit the street, I hold up a finger and tell him I’ll be right back. “Wait for me.”
“I will.”
I turn to go get the one last thing I want for him, but as I glance back over my shoulder, I see him waiting. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and here on the sidewalk outside the chocolatier, with the lights of the tower behind him, he’s what I want to photograph. I want to snap this shot, post it on Instagram, and hashtag it “boyfriendaspirations.”
As soon as that thought lands, I mentally smack myself.
I’m not sixteen. I’m thirty.
But in my defense, he’s completely photo-worthy, and I have no doubt the ladies of Instagram would love this image. Instead, I take a mental picture because I want to remember Griffin waiting for me on the street, patiently, with a smile that reaches all the way to those bright blue eyes. He’s not checking his phone, grumbling, or grimacing. He’s waiting. Happily. For me.
Hustling back into the shop, I order one last item from the clerk. She gives it to me and wishes me a good night.
I yank open the door, hand him the wrapped treat, and say, “Voilà.”
He arches a brow curiously as he opens the paper. A smile plays on his lips. “I’ve been waiting for a chocolate tart from you.” He takes a beat. “Thank you.” His voice is soft, and our eyes hold. He looks at me like he did in the restaurant. With desire. With longing. He leans closer, dusting his lips to my cheek. “Merci.”
I. Die.
My knees go weak. My stomach executes cartwheels.
It’s the barest touch, but I want to cup my hand on my cheek and hold that kiss close all night long. I’m not supposed to want this from him. But I want it. Oh, how I want it.
Then, it hits me. He’s not kissing me. He’s saying good-bye, European-style. The other cheek will come into play any second. My heart drops, knowing the evening is ending.
“Are you leaving? Are we done?” My voice rises, and I can’t hide that the thought makes me feel bereft. I want more of his words. More of this conversation. More of his finger on my nose, his willingness to taste new things, his confidence in teaching me.
I want the night with him to unfurl into whatever comes our way.
He doesn’t kiss my other cheek. Instead, he shoots me a sexy, lopsided grin that ignites the butterflies in my chest once more.
He scoffs. “Done? We’re not done in the least. In fact, I’m still waiting to learn something about you, Ms. Danvers-Lively.” He gestures to the sidewalk.
I could skip with happiness. The night isn’t over at all. We’re going to have a twilight walk in Paris, and I do believe I’ll be going to bed on a cloud tonight. This is a dream. “What do you want to learn?”
“You said something last night that piqued my interest. Your friend Elise told you that you needed more fun. Why? What was un-fun about life in Texas?”
My chest tightens. Here we go.
“Why would you think it was un-fun?” I toss back, since a part of me doesn’t want to ruin the flirty vibe with the archaeological excavation of my pre-Paris life.
He taps his chin, adopting a studious look. “Hmm. Could it be that when we first met, you said you just got out of a bad relationship and you weren’t looking for anything serious?”
Busted.
But I’m busted, too, with the stark reminder of why I can’t back him up against the glass wall of the boulangerie we’re strolling past, and kiss him hard with the cobbled streets of the Rue de Grenelle as our witness. Because my last relationship weighed me down. It entangled me. In my experience, relationships are chains around my ankles. When you’re finally free, you don’t check yourself back into the asylum. I’m finally finding myself again in Paris. I’m stepping into the person I’ve wanted to be. I can’t fall into the mistakes I’ve made in the past.
“I was involved with someone for a few years,” I admit. “At first, it was good, like most relationships are at the starting line.”
“True. If they weren’t, we likely wouldn’t begin any,” he says as we wander down the street.
I offer a half-hearted smile at the sentiment. It’s both true and a little sad that so many relationships start, and yet so many end. “As for my ex, he wasn’t a bad person, and we clicked at first. But after a year, I grew apart from him. It just happened. I didn’t feel the same for him anymore. I wanted more out of life, out of work, and he didn’t. There was no big fight. No big reason. It was just one of those things.”
He shoots
