Chapter 28
I choose the Land Rover. Spacious, less conspicuous, and significantly less valuable. It has our bags in the back and ample legroom in the front. Plus a radio, which is key for Harper, who is handling the music on the drive.
London to the Channel takes no time at all. The Channel itself is slightly more of a hassle, waiting in line at Folkestone for our turn to drive onto the train shuttle. Harper makes soft oohing sounds at all of it. “So we can’t drive the tunnel ourselves?”
“Not allowed,” I say, and can’t help the rueful note in my voice.
She laughs at me. “Twenty minutes of darkness?”
“Give or take, yes.”
“And then we’ll be in France.” She reaches for her phone and changes the song to something in French; something I don’t know, and clearly she doesn’t, either. She smiles wide and leans back in the seat. “Did you say you had a business dinner tomorrow?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I’ve been needing to meet them for a while now. They could only do dinner.”
“That’s fine,” she says. “Who are they?”
“Thierry works for Contron and Janos is a consultant we’re hiring for an expansion into Eastern Europe. They’re spearheading a project my brother has put a lot of money behind.”
“That sounds exciting.”
I give her a crooked smile. “You don’t have to pretend.”
“I’m not, I promise.”
“The only downside is that it takes away from one of our two evenings in Paris,” I say.
“Yeah,” she says. “Or I can come with you.”
My eyebrows rise. “You’d do that?”
Her smile widens. “I think I’d enjoy watching you work. I never have before, not really.”
I run a hand through my hair and find myself liking the idea far too much. The idea of her being next to me. It feels like she belongs there. “You’re very welcome to join.”
She pulls her legs up and wraps her arms around her knees. There’s a spark in her green depths. “Okay. Looking forward to it.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “You look like you’re planning something.”
“I’m the epitome of innocence,” Harper says, blinking dramatically.
“Mm-hmm. Why do I find that hard to believe?”
“Because you’re a deeply distrustful man,” she says, but she’s grinning. “Tell me about the hotel you’ve booked.”
“What a seamless segue.”
She rolls her eyes, but her smile widens. “Tell me.”
So I do.
All in all, Calais to Paris takes us almost four hours. We stop at a tiny village, and then at another one at Harper’s request, before rolling into the City of Light. I’ve done this trip a few times previously, but the drive on the ring road around Paris, seeing the glittering Eiffel Tower in the distance, is still magnificent. Le dame de fer—the Iron Lady—rises above all of the other buildings.
It’s late by the time we get to our hotel. My assistant booked the usual—a luxurious historic hotel located by Place Vend?me, only a stone’s throw from the Tuileries Garden. A valet takes care of my Jeep.
That alone makes this hotel leaps and bounds more appealing than any other place in the city. I won’t be taking any risks with street parking, which is always a concern, regardless of leaving my Aston Martin behind.
The heat wave that’s holding London in its grip hasn’t reached Paris yet, or maybe it came from here, I don’t know. At any rate, the evening air is warm but comfortable, nowhere near the sweltering conditions we left across the Channel.
Harper marvels at everything as we walk to dinner. Even at this hour, the restaurant is packed. When she can’t decide between a few dishes, I tell the waiter to bring them all.
“I can’t believe,” she says, dipping a piece of fluffy white bread into the sauce that surrounds a single large lamb shank, “that we’re really here.”
“I can. This place is decidedly French,” I comment. “As it should be.”
She looks at our neighbors—a group who’s fashionably dressed and laughing loudly. They’re on their fifth shared bottle of wine. “It is. I love it. I love all of this. Nate…”
“Don’t thank me,” I say and hold up my hand. “This is as much your trip as it is mine.”
“We both know that’s not true,” she says, and a faint shadow crosses her features. It makes me frown.
She’s still struggling. Dean and his fucking domineering.
And although I’m paying for this trip… it doesn’t mean that she isn’t in control. That she doesn’t have a say in it.
“It is. I’ve been here a few times and have never gone to the art museums, which is a travesty, I know. Don’t say it too loud so the others can hear. Which ones are we visiting tomorrow?”
Her face lights up with a brilliant smile. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Well, we have to go to the Louvre, of course. That might take quite a bit of the day.”
“I’m game.”
“And then, I really, really want to see the Musée d’Orsay. It’s close, right nearby. So is the Musée de l’Orangerie. The most incredible Monet is there.”
“I can’t wait,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “Ha-ha, I know, but if you need to step out or take a phone call, please do. Don’t feel like you have to follow me around.”
“I’m serious. I want to go.”
A small smile spreads across her face. “You do? You’re interested?”
“Yes. What’s more, I’m very interested in seeing you happy, and I have a feeling you’ll explain things that I don’t know. It’s like, I’ll be getting a private tour of some of the grandest museums in the world.”
She giggles, and the sound feels like victory. “I don’t know these places. I’ve never been before.”
“No, but you have a degree in art history, and I don’t know Michelangelo from Machiavelli.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Fine, I do,” I admit. She smiles and reaches for another spoonful of the garlic mashed potatoes. We’ve got too much food. I’d known that when I ordered and done it anyway, but it’s worth it just for the smile on her face.
I think I’ve become addicted to it.
Provoking it. Inspiring it. Being on the receiving end of it.
It’s midnight when we finally walk back to the hotel. The streets are quiet for a Friday, but then again, we’re not in the party district. A few taxis slow down for us, but I wave them off.
Our room is grand, decorated with ornate wallpaper, and with a beautiful view out of the Tuileries Gardens and, beyond, the effervescent glow of the Eiffel Tower. The focal point of the bedroom, though, is large and covered in fluffy white hotel linens. A lone bed. But this time… it’s on purpose.
Harper changes in the bathroom and emerges wearing the same outfit she’s slept in at home for the past few days. A camisole and shorts. Her hair is braided and hangs down her back, but small curls have managed to escape and frame her face in wispy ringlets. She’s beautiful. And tired, trying to cover a yawn with her hand.
I’m lying on my back on top of the covers.
“Hey,” she says, smiling.
“Hi.”
She pads across the space to her side of the bed. Her side. I feel too light. Like I’m not living in this reality, but some kind of fantasy, a world where I get to do things like this.
We haven’t spoken about it. About us.
Haven’t said a word more than friends help friends come and want to sleep down here? Everything else has been unspoken, unsaid, the words too real to be uttered. We’re still just mere friends who find each other attractive.
Bringing up this discussion might change things.
Might change everything.
Harper climbs into bed, and I head to the bathroom to brush my teeth. When I return, she’s snuggled in the covers, and the room is silent apart from her soft breathing. It’s also dark, lit only by the lights from beyond the window.
“Want me to close the blinds?” I ask.
Her voice is sleepy. “No. I can see the Eiffel Tower from where I’m lying. I want to see it all night long.”
“While you’re sleeping?”
“I want to know it’s there,” she says. “And I want to wake up to it. Is that okay?”
“Of course it’s okay.” I slide in behind her, not hesitating in the least now. She’s already turned her back to me and is lying on her side, perfectly arched.
I’ve learned to spot her invitations.
Shifting nearer to her side, I wrap my arm around her waist. I’ve skipped the T-shirt tonight, and the bare skin of her arms and upper back is silky against mine.
“You’re right,” I say into the fragrant mass of her hair. “You can see the Eiffel Tower from here.”
“I don’t want this weekend to ever end,” she whispers.
I tighten my grip around her. “It won’t.”
There’s a smile in her voice. “I added something to my list.”
“Did you? This system of yours is very convenient.”
She sighs. “This isn’t something I’ve done, yet.”
“Oh? What is it?”
I settle deeper into the softness of the bed, closer to Harper’s warmth, and slide my leg between hers. Feel the rise and fall of this incredible woman’s chest beneath my arm, and watch the distant lights of the city.
“I want to kiss someone in front of the Eiffel Tower.”
My smile is hidden against her neck. “Someone?”
“Mm-hmm.” Beneath the covers, her hand covers mine, pulling it up to her chin. “Someone like you.”
Experiencing Paris with Harper is better than both of the previous times I’d been in the city for business. By miles. She’s genuinely happy, authentically curious, and wondrously amazed at everything we see. I don’t know if I’ve ever known such sincerity.
She cries in the Louvre.
“Happy tears, I promise,” she says, standing in front of a giant wall of renaissance portraits. A tear tracks down her cheek. “It’s just… I’ve read so much about this place and heard so much, and I just never…”
I press a kiss to her temple. “I get it.”
“Do you cry at car shows?” she asks, brushing the back of her hand along the line of her jaw.
“Well, no. Not recently.”
“When did you cry last?”
“How did this get turned around on me?”
She smiles and rests her head against my shoulder, her eyes on the giant painting. “Because you fascinate me. Almost as much as this magnificent example of renaissance chiaroscuro.”
“Almost as much,” I murmur.
“Mm-hmm. That’s high praise.”
I wrap an arm around her waist. “Oh, I know, coming from you.”
The rest of the day is filled with more joy than I can remember feeling in a long time.
I’ve never identified as an unhappy man. The years had been good to me. I’ve made enjoyment a priority, once I stopped competing with Alec. Work hard. Play hard.
Buy expensive cars.
Drive expensive cars.
Travel, meet people, drink, travel some more, buy another watch, move into the townhouse, attend a conference in Japan. One thing after the other, and it’s all been satisfying.
But the last few months have been so decidedly different that it’s hard not to see the truth. That there was a before and an after. Before Harper moved in. After Harper moved in. And the difference is so stark I might as well have become an entirely different man.
Hollow.
That’s the right word for how I lived before. And how I will live again, if she once again slips out of my grasp.
“Look at that,” Harper says. We’re walking along the Seine, toward where the Eiffel Tower rises in the distance. Harper stops and points across the river, at the row of stands. “They’re selling… art. I think.”
“Prints, most likely. Come on.” We cross the bridge, and she peruses through various offerings of the tiny market. My gaze snags on a picture of a vintage car painted on a thin canvas. It looks like the Ferrari 250 GTO, one of the greatest cars ever built.
Harper notices my interest. “Buy it,” she whispers. “I know that you want to.”
“Is that your professional opinion, as my art adviser?”
“Yes. I think that artist is one to watch.”
“Will his work appreciate in value?”
“Yes,” she says. “Sentimental value.”
We leave the stand with two rolled-up canvas prints in a tube. The walk is beautiful—as most things in Paris are—and chaotic, and all other things it tends to be. The riverside wall along the Seine is peppered with tourists and Parisians alike, enjoying the fine weather.
The Eiffel Tower disappears when we draw near, hidden behind the tall buildings around us. The seventh arrondissement is old and storied, and the stone structures here are imposing.
And then, we turn a corner, and she appears.
Grand, and forcing one to look so far up that it gives you a crick in the neck.
Harper grabs my hand and pulls me forward. I follow her, loving this side of her. The side that takes what she wants.
I want her to have everything she wants.
“Oh my God,” she says. “Look at that. It’s so much taller than I thought!”
“Used to be the tallest structure in the world,” I say. “Before us New Yorkers ruined that with the Chrysler Building.”
“How rude,” she says softly.
“Well, the French sort of ruined it for us first, by building the Eiffel Tower and beating the Washington Monument.”
We come to a stop on the lawn. Around us, people are picnicking, sitting on the grass, drinking wine. Laughing.
Enjoying a summer day in Paris.
I wait until she’s looked her fill, until she turns back to me with excitement in her eyes. Then I pull her in close.
“Oh,” she breathes. Understanding fills her eyes, and her eyelashes flutter close.
I kiss her. Right there, beneath the Eiffel Tower in the late afternoon sun and with hundreds of people around us.
My lips ache from the sweetness of her kiss. The ache I’ve missed since our last kiss at the movie premiere. Since that hidden closet.
This kiss is new. In the open. But still as sweet.
I want to kiss her every day. Morning, noon, and night.
Harper’s hands glide up my shirt, finding the linen collar. She grabs a hold of it and tugs like she wants me even closer.
She tastes delicious. Like the white wine we shared at lunch and the mint from chewing gum. Her soft lips move over mine, and when I slide my tongue into the warmth of her mouth, she opens for me as if she’s been waiting for it.
“Another couple in Paris,” someone says nearby. It’s a British voice, and an exasperated one at that.
“It’s the city of love,” another one comments. “Don’t begrudge them.”
“Yes, but snogging in public?”
“They’re in love,” the second voice says. “Don’t be a grump.”
Harper pulls away, a laugh bubbling out of her. She buries her face against my neck, and her laughter tickles my skin.
I wrap my arms around her.
“Don’t be a grouch,” she murmurs against my neck.
The speakers in question are occupying a giant blanket a few feet away, enjoying the sunshine and a box of wine. Students, by looking at them.
They’re in love.
I smooth a hand over Harper’s back. “Don’t be embarrassed.”
“I’m not,” she murmurs and pulls back to meet my gaze. Her hands are still holding on tightly to the collar of my button-down, and there’s a beautiful flush spreading across her cheeks. She’s gotten a few new freckles over her nose from the day in the sun. “And Nate?”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to pay you back tonight,” she says, a smile curving her full lips. “For what you did to me at the movie premiere.”