Chapter Seven
Clay
The air is brisk, the sidewalks and streets are busy, and the sky is clear as we make our way to the first stop on our itinerary, Shakespeare and Company. Amber and Dash are leading the pack, and Amber is giving us a history lesson on the historic bookstore. “The original Shakespeare and Company bookstore was founded in 1919 by Sylvia Beach as a gathering place for expat writers like Joyce, Hemingway, and Stein, and for famed French writers, too. The shop we’re going to see was founded in 1951 by George Whitman, and the original name was Le Mistral…”
Axsel is texting, and tossing out comments as if he’s listening. Brindle and Morgyn are holding hands with their husbands, talking quietly among themselves, and Pepper and I are bringing up the rear.
We’re in a city full of old-world charm, with intricate architecture and an aura all its own. I should be listening to every word Amber says, getting lost in the history and the beauty of our surroundings, but it can’t even begin to hold my attention the way Pepper does. She looks beautiful in her navy peacoat, her cheeks pink from the chilly air, her eyes a little guarded. I know she’s unsure whether she can trust my word to keep our secret, but I’m working on that.
“You can hold my hand if you want,” I offer, and she gives me a pointed look. “Friends hold hands. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
She looks amused. “No, thank you.”
“Have it your way. It’s just that your sisters seem happier when they’re holding their husbands’ hands, and I didn’t want you to feel left out.”
“That’s awfully chivalrous of you.”
“If you change your mind, just let me know. Have you been to Paris before?”
“No. This is my first time.”
“What do you think of it so far?”
Her gaze sweeps over the cobblestone street and surrounding buildings as we walk down the sidewalk. “The architecture is pretty, and I like the cobblestone streets, but walking on them in heels would be nearly impossible. To be honest, I don’t get why everyone thinks it’s so romantic.”
“What makes a place romantic isn’t what it looks like. It has to do with who you’re with and how you feel when you’re with them.”
“Well, yeah. Feeling romantic is a chemical reaction to pleasurable experiences based on a reward system.”
“By that definition, last night was romantic.”
“I can’t comment on things that didn’t happen,” she says teasingly. “But being turned on is different from feeling romantic. There are overlaps, of course, but desire is driven by hormones, and attraction is created by dopamine, norepinephrine, and serotonin. Oxytocin and vasopressin mediate the reaction and the attachment.”
I chuckle and shake my head. She’s so fucking adorable.
“Sorry,” she says softly. “Sometimes I forget a simple answer is enough.”
“Don’t apologize. I think it’s sexy as hell that you know all that.”
She rolls her eyes. “Do you think Paris is romantic?”
“I think the whole world can be romantic. To me, romance is catching the scent of your lover’s perfume and thinking of all the things you want to do for them, with them, and to them. It’s holding hands as you walk down the street without needing to talk because just being together is enough. It’s learning the little things about someone you care for and then making the effort to do them and having such a good time together, you want the moments to last forever.”
Her brow furrows, and she looks at me like I’ve confused her.
“What?”
“I didn’t take you as a romantic guy.”
“I told you there was more to me than just an orgasm donor.”
She gives me an imploring look and glances at the others.
“Don’t worry, Reckless,” I say quietly. “They’re all feeling too romantic with each other to listen to us. Except Axsel, but he’s sidetracked with his phone. I’ll try to be more careful with what I say.”
“No, you won’t,” she says with a smile.
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” I can feel her tension easing as we follow the others around a corner.
“Have you been to Paris before?”
“Once, with my family when I was a kid, but we didn’t spend much time in the city.”
“No?” she asks with surprise. “What did you do here?”
“We mostly explored the Paris Region forests.”
“Really? That’s different . I didn’t even know there were forests here. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone coming here to see forests.”
“I’m not surprised. My upbringing wasn’t typical by any stretch of the imagination.”
“What do you mean?”
“My parents are wildlife biologists, and my mother is also a wildlife photographer. Our home base is in Ridgeport, Mass, but most of my childhood was spent traveling overseas with my family. We lived in remote villages for months at a time, in homes and tents and huts, exploring rainforests and jungles and learning about other cultures.”
“Wow. That must have been an amazing experience,” she says as we arrive at the bookstore, and the others start taking pictures of it.
“For some of us it was.” I motion to the bookstore. “Do you want to snap a shot?”
She shakes her head. “This is for Amber. She’s wanted to see this bookstore forever, and thanks to Dash, her dreams are coming true. But I don’t need pictures of a building that’ll just sit on my phone.”
“Dash is the king of romance. Well, I’d like to get a picture.” I pull out my phone, and before she can complain, I drape an arm around her shoulder and take a selfie of us.
“ Clay ,” she chides.
“Don’t worry, I’m not posting it anywhere.” I text the picture to her and pocket my phone.
Her phone chimes, and as she checks the text, a smile crawls across her face. “What’s this for?”
“So you don’t forget me. Come on.” I take her hand and follow the others inside.
Pepper doesn’t pull away, and I don’t let go as we explore the ancient bookstore, with its meandering rooms and narrow passageways. The worn floors and massive floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves bending under the weight of the books give the literary haven character. Stacks of books litter corners and tables, and greenery winds around structural posts elevated by small concrete blocks. There are plants in odd places, epigrams painted on stairs and above doorways, and the rooms seem to be never-ending.
We head upstairs, checking out reading nooks and a maze of rooms. “What do you think, Pep?” I ask as we walk through one room to another.
“It smells like old books,” she whispers.
“Is that what that smell is? I thought it was dust bunnies. I keep expecting an old man with round spectacles to shuffle by talking to himself.”
She laughs softly and whispers conspiratorially, “I can see him wearing suspenders and an old white dress shirt stained yellow with age.”
“I think we passed him three rooms ago,” I joke.
“I bet a guy like that lives here. This would be a great place to play hide-and-seek.”
“We could get lost for days in here,” I say as we meander into another room, the two of us whispering like kids. “I bet you had great hiding spots when you were little.”
“They were only great because they were obvious and nobody looked there.”
I picture her as a little girl, calculating her chances of getting caught in different places based on some mathematical equation. “Makes sense. What was your favorite one?”
“I’m not telling you all my secrets.” She peruses a bookshelf.
“Ah, playing it mysterious, are you? I’ll figure it out. It’s got to be outside, because there were too many kids in your family to hide inside.”
“You’ve got that right.”
“Give me a minute. I’ll get it.” I think about her parents’ property, which I’ve seen a few times while visiting Dash and Amber. They have a gorgeous Victorian with a wide front porch and a large yard, a barn for their horses, and another building for her mother’s service-dog training business. There’s a gazebo, where I can imagine her spending hours reading, but that would be too obvious. There are mature trees and a few manicured gardens. “Is it near a garden?”
“You’re getting warmer.”
“Being near you gets me warmer.” I brush my hand along her back and catch a flash of desire in her eyes. “What’s your favorite flower?”
“Roses, why?”
“Just curious.” I mentally scroll through the gardens in her parents’ yard, but I can’t recall any with roses, which is probably why she gave up the answer. Then it hits me. The most obvious place. “I’ve got it. By the big oak tree in your parents’ backyard. The one with the prickly holly bushes around it.”
Her eyes widen. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Easy. I can’t imagine you crawling under your parents’ porch, which would be the best hiding place, or hiding out in the woods, and the barn and garage are too obvious. But no kid wants to go near holly bushes.”
“Impressive deductive skills. How about you? I bet you were a wild thing when you were young.”
“You’re not wrong. I hated to sit still then, and I still do. I was always running around, imagining myself out on a football field. I think I drove my older sister and brother crazy. Victory and Seth were always trying to rein me in, but my younger brother Flynn loved to explore. If I couldn’t get anyone to play football with me, I’d take off in the fields or forests, knowing Flynn would come after me, and we’d run around for hours, using sticks as swords and finding cool places to hide.”
“You said you lived in remote places. Was it dangerous?” she asks as we wander into a room filled with literary memorabilia.
“Sometimes, but our parents gave us strict rules about where we could go and what we could do. They kept a pretty tight rein, and while I was just wild, Flynn was wild and careful. He’s a world-renowned survivalist and a producer now, but even as a kid he was into survival, and he has this amazing ability to hear and read things once and know them forever.”
“Does he have a photographic memory?”
“No. He’s just super smart. He used to drive us nuts spouting facts about animals and plants, but I have no doubt that he did his part in keeping me safe. I was an impulsive kid, and I liked to push limits. My parents would tell me not to go into a pond, and the minute they turned their backs, I’d be in the water and come out covered with leeches.”
“Ew.” She wrinkles her nose adorably. “Sounds like you were rebellious.”
“I was bored. I wanted to be playing football.”
“Even as a little boy?”
“For as long as I can remember. The first time I saw a football game, I was five. We were eating lunch at an airport waiting for our flight, and I saw a game on TV. I was mesmerized, and according to my parents, I wouldn’t shut up about it. My dad wasn’t a sports guy, but when he realized my interest wasn’t waning, he learned all the rules and positions and taught me everything he could.”
“Wow. He sounds amazing.”
“My old man? Yeah, my parents are super supportive of all of us. They definitely fed my love of football. When we were little, it didn’t matter where we were living. If there were enough people to put together a game of football, I’d rally them. Kids, parents, even grandparents if that’s what it took, and I’d teach them all to play. It didn’t matter that half the time we didn’t speak the same language, or that we were in some remote village in New Guinea or Indonesia or South America. I’d find a way to teach them the game.” A rush of adrenaline hits with the good memories. “ Man , I haven’t thought about that in years.” I haven’t felt that type of passion for the game in so long, I wonder where it went. I tuck that question away to pick apart another time.
“You sound like you enjoyed it.”
“I did. I loved teaching everyone to play and finding ways to communicate well enough that they all had fun. There’s something about bringing a team together that has always fired me up.”
“So you were a bored wild banshee?”
“Pretty much.” My smile fades as more memories creep in. “But that wild streak got tempered when my youngest brother, Noah, followed me into the woods without me knowing. I was probably nine or ten, and he was only four or five. It took us a while to find him because he’d learned how to hide from playing with us. Not to brag, but we were pretty fucking great at it.”
“You, brag?” she says sarcastically, grinning.
“He learned too well. I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared. That day changed me. I went from being a carefree kid to watching out for others before myself.”
Pepper’s expression turns thoughtful. “Hurting someone you love, or putting them in danger, can definitely change a person.”
“You say that like you have experience with it.”
She doesn’t look away, but her voice softens. “I did something when I was younger and one of my sisters took the blame for it. It had a big impact on both of us.” As if she realized she was exposing her underbelly, she waves a hand dismissively, quickly adding, “But that was a long time ago.”
I want to know more about what happened, but she’s looking around the room, avoiding my gaze, and I can tell she doesn’t want to talk about it, so I reassure her instead. “Having each other’s backs is what siblings do. I can’t tell you how many times we covered for each other.”
“Yeah, I know,” she says too cheerily.
I let it go and motion to the literary memorabilia decorating the walls to try to lighten the mood. “What do you think of all this?”
She gazes up at it. “It’s interesting, and I can see how it would be intriguing to Amber, since she owns a bookstore, and she’s into all things literary. But famous writers aren’t really my thing.”
“Mine either. But I’m glad I have this time with you.”
Her expression turns a little bashful, and it’s an incredibly sexy look on her.
“You can admit you’re having fun, you know.”
“I’m not having a bad time,” she says sassily.
“Damn, Pep. You sure know how to make a guy feel good.”
“I think I proved that last night,” she whispers, and then she giggles and covers her mouth, like she can’t believe she said it, and it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
A quick look around tells me we’re alone, and I can’t resist getting her a little worked up. “Ah, the sensual vixen I had the pleasure of devouring last night comes out to play.” I lace our fingers together.
“ Clay ,” she warns, her gaze flicking between the two entryways.
“There’s nobody around, and I’m just holding a friend’s hand.” I tuck her hair behind her ear, speaking low. “Tell me, Pep. Do you want to kiss me as badly as I want to kiss you right now?”
Her lips part, lust simmering in her eyes, but she doesn’t respond.
“You don’t have to say it,” I whisper, closing the small gap between us. “I can feel how much you want me.” I slide my hand beneath her hair to the nape of her neck, bringing our lips closer together. “Tell me I’m wrong, and I’ll back off.”
She breathes harder, her eyes imploring me with as much desire as restraint. Her breasts brush against me with each breath. Her fingers curl tightly around mine, and she whispers, “Are you crazy? We can’t kiss here. It’s too open. Someone will see us.”
I want to push her limits and drag her into one of the dark alcoves we’ve passed to show her just how much we can do here, but there’s something about Pepper that makes me greedier than I’ve ever been. Wanting me isn’t enough. I want to be the guy she can’t stop thinking about. The guy she can’t keep her hands off.
I want her to want to be reckless with me.
There’s only one way to achieve that, so I take what feels like the biggest risk of my life and crush my lips to hers in the kiss we both want. The kiss I’ve been dying for since I woke up with her in my bed. She stiffens, but her resistance is no match for the lust pounding between us, and she melts against me, her hands moving beneath my jacket to my chest, her fingers curling into my shirt as she goes up on her toes, eagerly returning my efforts. The feel of her surrendering to our passion makes me want to take it further. But that won’t get me what I want. I want her to realize she wants , too.
Fighting that urge with everything I have, I pull back, leaving her hazy eyed and breathless. “Looks like you were wrong, sweetheart. We can kiss here.”
Pepper
My heart thunders as Clay steps away, like he didn’t just shatter my ability to think and leave me desperate for more. The man doesn’t just kiss. He consumes , like kissing is his superpower.
I don’t know how my rubbery legs make it through the rest of the bookstore, but somehow they do. Eventually we make it downstairs and out the front door. When the winter air hits my cheeks, my brain finally starts firing again. My body, however, is still reeling from that toe-curling kiss.
“Amber, where to next?” Clay asks, as casual as can be, as if he kisses like that every day.
For all I know, he does. Shut up. Why am I sticking up for him?
“The Notre-Dame Cathedral,” Amber says excitedly as she takes Dash’s hand. “Let’s go.”
Clay falls into step beside me, and we follow the others down the sidewalk. “How’re you doing, Reckless?”
“You’re the reckless one,” I whisper. “If my sisters find out we hooked up last night and I have to deal with their crap, you’re going to pay for it.”
“Careful tossing out promises like that. I might be into you punishing me.”
I shake my head, smiling. Smiling! I should scowl, but this is what he does to me. The man renders me stupid, and I don’t hate it.
“There’s that gorgeous smile that keeps me up at night.”
I’m sure my smile is the last thing keeping him up at night, but that’s not something anyone has ever said to me before, and it’s nice to hear it.
My family’s voices mingle with the sounds of traffic as we make our way to a bridge over the Seine. I try to focus on the views of the city, the cobblestone streets, and the river, but I can’t concentrate on anything other than Clay’s proximity. When we start across the bridge, everyone else stops to take pictures. Clay touches my lower back, leaning close, like it’s become a habit. His lips graze my ear, sending shivers of heat down my neck as he whispers, “How about here?”
“Here what?”
“This looks like a good place to kiss.” He flashes those dimples.
I laugh. “Would you stop?”
“Why would I stop when it makes you smile? I’ve already told you how much I like that gorgeous smile.”
I’m starting to like the things he says and does way too much. He doesn’t leave my side as we go from one famous landmark to the next, exploring Notre-Dame Cathedral with its intricately carved gargoyles and Chimeras, and twin bell towers, and then Sainte-Chapelle royal chapel, where we admire the magnificent scenes depicted in the stained glass.
“The glasswork is incredible,” I say as we walk around the chapel.
“Not nearly as incredible as my view,” Clay says.
I glance over and find him looking at me with an intensity that makes my heart flutter.
He keeps me in that heightened state of anticipation and arousal as we explore the rest of the chapel and head to the next landmark. Amber tells us about each place we visit, but I’ve barely heard a word. I’m too sidetracked by Clay’s furtive touches and whispered flirtations.
“The architecture here is out of this world,” Trace says.
Everyone chimes in with their thoughts, but our late night is catching up to me, and my words are swallowed by a yawn.
“Does architecture bore you?” Clay asks.
“No. I’m just a little tired. Someone kept me up late last night.”
He grins. “You’re welcome.”
As cheesy as he is, he has kept me smiling, blushing, and laughing at his silly jokes all afternoon. A little while later, we’re heading to yet another site, when Clay says, “I’m going to hit the men’s room in that café we just passed.”
“Do you want us to wait?”
“No. I’ll catch up.” He jogs back to the café.
We stop at a corner, waiting to cross, and Axsel sidles up to me. “Did you scare Clay off already?”
“ No . He went to use the bathroom.”
“He’s a nice guy.”
Axsel is trying too hard to be casual. “And…?”
“Nothing,” he says as we cross the street. “I just think you two look good together. He seems into you.”
“There’s no one else here for him to flirt with.” I try to ignore the bad taste that leaves in my mouth.
Clay joins us a couple of minutes later and hands me a warm to-go cup.
“What’s this?”
“A latte. We can’t have you falling asleep on the tour.”
My heart doesn’t just flutter. It swells. “Thank you.”
He nods like it was no big deal.
“Handsome and thoughtful,” Axsel says. “No wonder they call you Mr. Perfect.”
Clay’s jaw tightens.
“Hey, Ax, come here,” Dash calls out, and Axsel goes to him, leaving us alone at the back of the group.
I take a sip of the latte. “ Mm . How did you know I like French vanilla?”
“I was with you at breakfast, remember?”
I didn’t realize he’d paid attention to such a small detail. I’m starting to think there’s more to this guy than the rumors let on.
His phone chimes with a text. As he pulls it from his pocket, it chimes again.
“Someone’s popular,” I tease as he thumbs out a text.
“It’s my buddies. A group text about the game.” The muscles in his jaw bunch as he pockets his phone.
“I’m sorry you lost the playoff.”
“Thanks.” The tension lingers in his jaw. “I hate that I blew it.”
“I don’t know much about football, but I’m sure it wasn’t just you who blew it.”
“I blew it when it counted, and that’s what matters. I hate letting my team down.”
“I wouldn’t be too hard on yourself. Everyone must have a bad game now and then. Besides, you’ve won Super Bowls before. That’s more than some quarterbacks can say.”
“Yeah, but you don’t win a Super Bowl and then sit back on your laurels and take it easy. You do better, work harder, so you can win another one for the team. Teammates come and go, and some of them haven’t ever made it to the Super Bowl. They worked their asses off to get to the playoffs, and they were counting on me. And it’s not just a loss for our team. It’s a hit for our sponsors and a huge disappointment for our fans, who have cheered us on all season. It’s…” His jaw clenches. “Never mind. I’m sure it seems silly to you. A bunch of grown men tossing a ball around.”
He’s been so casual, his passion takes me by surprise, and I realize it shouldn’t. He’s talking about his career, and clearly there’s a lot more to his thoughts on the game than just winning. “No, I get it. I don’t watch football, and I admit that I didn’t understand all the hype before, but when you put it the way you just did, I get it.”
“You do?”
“ Mm-hm. It’s like if I’m working on a contract and another scientist’s research isn’t up to par. The whole project can fail, making years of hard work all for naught.”
“Yes, exactly. Can you recover from that without blaming that person?”
“Of course. We’re a team, too, and it’s not always the scientist’s fault. Depending on the project, there are a multitude of factors that affect our research. All we can do is look at the data and try to figure out where we went wrong and what needs to change. It must be similar for you. Doesn’t everything impact the game? Weather? Strengths and weaknesses of your teammates and opponents on any given day? Frame of mind? There are so many variables. You can’t always be at your best. It’s physically impossible.”
“There’s no room for less than perfect during a game.”
The others start ooh ing and ahh ing, drawing our attention to the Panthéon as it comes into view. Its majestic dome and Corinthian columns dominate the streets of the Latin Quarter. But that magnificent sight holds my attention for only a few moments before my thoughts return to the man before me. Mr. Perfect . The man who I now realize is as dedicated to his career as I am to mine and also carries the weight of his team, his sponsors, and thousands of fans on his shoulders. I don’t have fans, but I endure other pressures, like supporting my team financially and professionally and the scrutiny of the scientific and medical communities. It’s a lot, and it can weigh you down. “That sounds like an incredible amount of pressure.”
“Nah,” he says with a grin. “It’s no more pressure than anyone else’s career. That’s enough work talk. Let’s go see what kind of trouble we can get into.”
This man is walking trouble where I’m concerned. He’s already got me wanting to know more about him. What does he really think about that pressure? How does he handle it? How often does he get to see his family? Are they still close?
As we explore the Panthéon, he whispers things like, “ How about here? ” and “ I can’t stop thinking about getting my hands on you ,” at the most inopportune times, knowing exactly how revved up he’s getting me. He steals kisses behind pillars, and when no one is looking as we walk around, and I’m like a giddy teen, chasing that high. By the time we leave, I’m a heart-pounding bundle of desire, anxiously awaiting our next stolen kiss.
I don’t know which is worse, that Clay has me acting like someone I don’t recognize again or that I like it. But I know one thing for sure. If I’m not careful, Brindle will sniff out last night like a hound dog on a trail.