10. Chapter Ten - Reed
Reed
“O h God, oh God, we’re going to die,” she groans beside me as we enter what might be the most chaotic roundabout in Europe, clinging to the handle above the door like it’s a lifeline. There are no markings on the cobblestone road, no signs, just vibes, free-for-all of honking, and swerving French drivers who appear to rely on telepathy and blind luck.
“Shut up,” I laugh, not even trying to hide how much I’m enjoying her panic. She’s acting like I’m about to drive the two of us off a cliff instead of maneuvering an, albeit chaotic, roundabout. “I’m an excellent driver. Just look at the Arc de Triomphe over there.”
“You might be, but that doesn’t mean none of them is going to hit us.” She gestures wildly with her one free hand, her voice an octave higher than usual. “That one looks like he’s run people off the road. I’ve never seen a car with so many dents before!”
I don’t look—I can’t, really, since I’m busy not getting us killed—but panic makes her voice almost as loud as the traffic, so I’m inclined to believe her.
“If I die, tell my brother I love him,” she mutters under her breath like she’s already bidding her life goodbye, squeezing her eyes shut and even hiding them with her free hand like that’s going to help. I chuckle softly. She’s ridiculous.
Even if someone hits us, it’s a roundabout. Nobody here is going faster than thirty kilometers per hour. If any of them dinged us, there’d be a dent in the car and I’d be annoyed to pay a fee, but I dare say our lives are not in danger.
“You can open your eyes,” I finally tell her with a chuckle and give her thigh a squeeze. “We made it. No more roundabouts in sight.”
She peeks through a gap in her fingers before she lowers her hand and blinks her eyes open cautiously, and from the corner of my eyes, I watch her relax, though her death grip on the handle lasts a few more blocks.
The rest of the drive out of Paris is calmer, at least outside the car. Inside, she’s got her forehead pressed to the window, moderating the scenery we’re driving past. Currently, she’s babbling about the Grande Arche, looming in the distance, its modern architecture a stark contrast to the century old buildings that make up the most part of downtown Paris.
“You must’ve been here a lot,” she says in awe after I rattle off some facts about it that I picked up in a travel guide my sister gave me for my birthday years ago.
“Quite a few times,” I reply, a grin tugging on the corner of my lips. “And I told you, I read a lot and have a great memory. The basics stick with me.”
“That’s a bit more than ‘basics,’” she insists with an eye roll. “Show off.”
“I prefer ‘smart,’” I tease her back, pinching her thigh when I see her sticking her tongue out at me from the corner of my eyes. “And admit it, you have more fun listening to me than looking it up yourself.”
“I admit nothing,” she says with a pout but I catch that amused undertone in her voice easily.
The rest of the drive goes by quicker than I expect. We fill it with easy conversation, trading jokes and teasing each other like we’ve been doing it for years.
Even when we’re not talking, the silence isn’t awkward, it just feels natural, like we’re both content to be in each other’s space, like there’s no need for words. At one point, I rest my hand on her thigh, not thinking much of it, just feeling the warmth of her skin under my palm, thanks to the short pink summer dress she’s wearing. It looks cute on her slightly tanned skin, complementing her long brown hair and blue eyes.
My thumb moves in slow circles on her skin, almost without me realizing. She stiffens for half a second, just a breath, but she doesn’t pull away, doesn’t move my hand. I count that as a win.
Eventually, we pull off the highway and wind through a small town that looks straight out of a postcard, with little stone houses that have flower boxes with all kinds of colorful plants on their windowsills and balconies, overhanging trees lining the narrow streets and high fences and walls keeping curious eyes at bay.
I slowly drive where an older man waves us in, guiding us to a free parking spot with a lazy kind of authority. As soon as the car is in park, I’m already out, walking around to her side. She’s just reaching for her seatbelt when I open the door for her, her hand pausing mid-motion, and she glances up at me, surprised.
“Such a gentleman,” she teases and takes my hand as she climbs out of the rental car, smoothing down her dress when she stands.
I rest my hand on the small of her back as we head toward the entrance. The sun’s beating down, bright and warm, and she slides on her sunglasses without missing a step. It’s the kind of day that feels made for wandering with clear skies and a soft breeze, perfect for a slow stroll to find out if the gardens look just as serene as in Monet's paintings.
When we reach the ticket counter, I pay before she can even try to stop me. I invited her, it’s only fair. She protests weakly and when I put my hand over her mouth to make her stop, she licks my palm, making both of us burst into laughter.
Spending time with her is so effortless. I don’t feel like I need to keep up a front, like I have an image to maintain. With her, I’m just Reed. Not the model, not with my last name and all the headlines of it, just Reed. Her presence makes me feel good about myself, makes all the tiny self-doubting voices in my head after that rude photoshoot yesterday, shut up.
Even though it’s a weekday, the place is packed with people. Families, couples, and tour groups gather around the entrance and linger by the small souvenir shop, flipping through postcards and picking up keychains. I take her hand, give it a gentle squeeze, and guide her past the crowd. Let everyone else fight over postcards and magnets. We’re here for the garden.
“It really looks straight out of a painting,” she says in awe, crunching along the gravel path, her eyes dancing over the array of flowers in wonder.
“Well, it basically is,” I reply with a grin. “Most of Monet’s late works were painted here.”
“Okay, Mister Wikipedia,” she giggles and bumps her shoulder against my upper arm. I shake my head at her with a grin and snake my arm around her waist, keeping her right there, flush against me.
We round a corner and there it is: Monet’s house. Soft pink walls with deep green shutters, ivy curling up the sides like it’s been painted on by the master himself. The whole place looks like it was ripped out of a storybook. A real-life cottage-core dream.
She stops in her tracks, eyes wide, taking it all in like she’s afraid it’ll disappear if she blinks.
“Are you kidding?” she whispers in awe, taking off her sunglasses to get a better look and walking a few steps closer while I stay in my spot. “This is stunning. If I lived here, I’d also feel really fucking inspired.”
She looks at me over her shoulder and catches me staring at her.
“I’m feeling really fucking inspired by this dress,” I murmur, stepping closer and pressing a kiss behind her ear. It’s been driving me crazy since I watched her step into it this morning, the way it clings just enough to show off her curves, then flares out at the waist, soft and floaty. The way it rides up her thighs when she moves and reveals more skin has my mind wrecked all damn day. “Can’t wait to take it off you later.”
She flushes a shade of red that nearly matches the roses behind her and playfully smacks my chest. “Don’t say stuff like that in public.”
I smirk. The way she avoids my eyes, bites her lip and starts to play with the fabric of her skirt tells me she likes it more than she wants to admit.
But she’s right. I’d rather wind her up in the privacy of a hotel room, when I can do so without being cockblocked by the public.
“Do you want to go inside?” I quickly change topics and her face breaks into a smile, her eyes lighting up.
“We can? I figured it was holy ground or something.”
“Looks like it.” I nod towards where a group of older women with matching hats currently streams out of the house.
I reach for her hand as we walk to the house, letting her lead the way. We step inside—and immediately regret it when we’re greeted with a wall of color.
“Wow,” she manages to whisper and I feel my face twist into a grimace.
Because it is. Walls, ceiling, chairs, fireplaces—everything is drenched in shades of yellow. It's like stepping into a field of sunflowers, but inside a house. Bright, warm, almost blinding in its cheerfulness. I keep my sunglasses on out of sheer survival instinct.
We both stare, caught somewhere between horror and awe. It’s so much yellow it’s almost impressive again.
“I can’t even hate it,” she finally whispers, dragging me further into the room.
“It’s like a car crash,” I add just as softly. “I want to look away, but I can’t.”
She playfully smacks my arm and shoots me a glare. “Don’t talk about car crashes. You’ll jinx one.”
“Sorry. But this is horrendous,” I whisper, catching a glare from two older women nearby who seem very impressed with Monet’s interior design skills.
“Yet kind of stylish,” she adds. We linger another beat, then spot another room. She nods toward it, and I tug her that way.
This time it’s blue . Blue walls, copper floor, copper pots. Still intense, but not quite as blinding. I chuckle. “At least it’s not as loud.”
“It’s still horrendous.” She grins.
“Oh, definitely.” We both laugh and step out of the house, back into the garden, and it feels like we’re stepping from a black and white world back into a color one. Well, only this one wasn’t black and white but a bright yellow.
“Wait,” she says, ruffling through her bag. “We have to take a selfie.”
The sun’s too bright, tourists are everywhere, and it feels like déjà vu, like we’re back at that first chaotic moment at Gare du Nord. But this time, I have no intention of running her over. I stay closer, keeping myself between her and the crowd so no one bumps into her.
She lifts her phone and takes a few pictures, quietly focused. I lean in, letting my cheek brush hers, and she laughs softly as she snaps a few more. Then, without looking, she tucks the phone away.
I don’t ask what she caught. I just rest my hand on the small of her back again as we continue our way.
“This spot certainly looks romantic,” I murmur when we reach the Japanese pond. “Saying that in case you want another romantic photo. Wink wink.”
The pond is serene, surrounded by drooping willows casting their shadow over the garden. A curved wooden bridge stretches over the water, which is dotted with lily pads and soft pink blossoms just like a Monet painting.
“You know what? You’re right.” I love the way her face lights up, the eagerness with which she looks around to find the perfect spot. And when she does, she asks an older woman nearby to take our picture and when she lifts her phone to do so, Abby turns to me, eyes sparkling.
“Come on, big boy. Kiss me like you mean it.”
I don’t hesitate. A moment later, I wrap my arms around her, dip her low, and kiss her like I absolutely mean it.
“It’s certainly impressive… for a garden,” she says cautiously as we make our way back to the car, her hand warm in mine and wind making her hair fly into my face. I pull her closer, putting my hand on her hip to prevent her dress from flying up and making me walk the rest of the way with a hard-on.
“Please tell me you’re underwhelmed too.” I chuckle, as we finally reach the rental car, pulling the door of the passenger seat open for her.
“A bit,” she admits, sliding in. “I mean it’s a garden, it’s exactly what it promised, but the crowd of tourists takes the magic out of it.”
“That’s the perfect way to sum it up,” I agree with a nod before gently closing the door once her legs are inside the car and walking to the driver’s side, a grin fixed to my face.
She watches me as I get in, and I can feel her gaze burning into the side of my face when I turn to reverse. I toss my arm behind her headrest, lean back, and glance over my shoulder.
That’s when I catch it—her breath stutters, just for a second, and she shifts in her seat.
Yeah, I know exactly what I’m doing. The way my arm stretches, flexes a bit, the way my shirt tugs across my chest, it’s not accidental. And from the way she squirms, eyes flicking away from me and back again, I see the effect it has on her. I can’t help but smile, slow and smug, as I ease us out of the parking space like I’ve done it a hundred times before.
The moment we hit the highway, my hand finds her thigh again, her skin warm and soft beneath my palm. I squeeze it gently, then let my thumb start tracing slow circles, drifting higher, inch by inch. She blushes and shifts in her seat, just a little, but enough for me to know I’m driving her crazy, her body saying more than her mouth ever would.
I push my hand a little further under her dress, just shy of where I know she wants me most. She’s wet already. The heat radiating from her is unmistakable, and it goes straight to my head, among other places. The kiss by the pond definitely stirred something up, but this? God, I love how reactive she is. How she bites her lip to keep involuntary whimpers inside.
I don’t press further. I keep her there, turned on and impatient, and I enjoy every second of it. Watching her squirm, her lips part just slightly, trying so hard to play it cool. It’s like a game I’m winning without even trying.
But of course, fate has the worst timing.
We hit traffic. Not the slow-creeping kind. Full stop. Red lights as far as the eye can see. I sigh, easing off the gas and killing the engine.
She slumps in her seat, arms crossed, a low groan escaping her lips. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I glance over, trying not to laugh. “Guess the universe wants us to cool off.”
She cuts me a glare. “Too late for that.” Her leg starts bouncing, restless, until I place my hand firmly on it and press it back down.
“I’d rather be back at the hotel with you, making the best of our last night together,” she adds, lifting her eyebrows in that way that makes my blood heat.
My mouth tugs into a mischievous smirk. “Well… I think we can find a way to pass the time.” My voice drops lower, rougher, as I lean across the console toward her.