Chapter 27
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
JO
The morning air has lost its crisp quality as we walk back toward the Seine. The sun is higher now, glinting off the water in dazzling shards. Boats drift languidly downstream, their wakes sending tiny ripples against the stone embankments.
Axel slows down, tilting his head to one side with that half smile, half thoughtful expression that makes my stomach twist.
He slides his hand into mine. “We’ve wandered bridges and streets … why not see the city from the river?”
I glance over at him, teasing. “Are you suggesting a cruise? Like a Bateaux-Mouches? A tourist boat with a million people?”
He laughs softly, a low sound that I love hearing. “No, not that kind. My PA has arranged something a little bit … quieter. A private boat. Just us. One hour, cruising past bridges, islands, the historic heart of Paris.
I raise an eyebrow, delighted and slightly flustered. “Private, huh? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to impress me?”
“You don’t know better,” he murmurs, letting his fingers squeeze mine as we descend the steps to the dock.”
I feel heat creeping up my neck, and I let my fingers linger in his. “Well,” I say, smiling. “Then I’ll consider myself lucky.”
The boat is waiting for us, small and sleek, bobbing gently against the dock.
Its polished wood gleams in the sunlight, and the canopy above promises shade without blocking the view.
Axel steps on first, then turns around to offer me his hand in a perfectly gentlemanly gesture.
I feel almost giddy as I accept the warmth of his palm pressing against mine, as I climb aboard carefully.
As soon as we’re in, the boat glides away from the dock, the gentle hum of the engine mingling with the lapping of the river against the hull.
I lean against the railing, letting the city unfold around me.
The Seine is wider here, flanked by quays lined with chestnut trees and elegant stone buildings.
I can see the Pont Neuf behind us, the bridge we crossed this morning, its arches glowing gold in the sun.
Axel stands close to me, his shoulder brushing mine, his presence a steady warmth.
“Look,” he says softly, pointing to the left. “That’s the ?le de la Cité from the water. You can see Notre Dame in a different light, still standing, still magnificent.”
I follow his gaze. The cathedral rises like a solemn guardian above the gardens, its damaged upper sections stark against the sky.
Even in its post-fire state, there’s a strength there, a kind of resilience that takes my breath away.
I feel a shiver run through me, partly from awe, partly from standing this close to him.
“It’s so incredibly beautiful,” I murmur, my voice full of reverence.
He leans closer, close enough that I feel the warmth of his breath on my neck, and I fight the urge not to turn my head and kiss his delicious lips. He wraps his arms around me from behind, and I lean back against him, putting my hands on top of his, where they rest on my stomach.
“It’s not as beautiful as you,” he says, and it’s a soft, intimate delivery. As if we are the only people on the boat. He kisses my neck, and my cheeks heat up. I glance down at the deck, pretending to inspect a rope, though I can feel his gaze lingering on me.
The boat drifts under the first bridge, the Pont des Arts, the famous love lock bridge. The sun catches the tiny metallic padlocks, turning them into a glittering mosaic above us.
“Have you ever heard of it?” Axel asks me, nodding toward the locks. He stands beside me now, his arm around my shoulders, pulling me against his side.
“Of course,” I say. “Couples lock a padlock there and throw the key into the river, a symbol of their eternal love, right?”
He glances at me, mischievous. “Want to tempt the gods and add one?”
I laugh, but there’s a flutter in my chest. “Do you want to?”
“Only if you’re daring enough,” he teases, his eyes sparkling.
We don’t have a lock, of course, but the idea, the gesture, is thrilling. I reach up and touch the bridge’s ironwork, letting my fingers linger.
“Maybe one day,” I murmur.
Axel pulls me even closer. “It’s a good reason to come back,” he says, his voice low, casual, teasing, but at the same time, entirely intentional.
I feel a shiver of delight and anticipation go through me.
We continue downstream, passing the Pont Alexandre III, its golden statues luminous in the morning light, cherubs and nymphs frozen mid-dance.
I breathe deeply as I take in the view of the grandiose bridges, the mansions along the quays, the ornate facades.
I feel the thrill of seeing it all from this intimate perspective.
Paris isn’t just a city; it’s a stage, a splendid show, and right now, we’re the only audience.
I lean against the railing, letting the breeze whip through my hair as Axel’s shoulder presses lightly against mine.
“You look like you belong here,” he says quietly. He’s not looking at me, but I feel every word.
I glance at him, teasing. “Really? You think I can pass for a Parisian?”
He smiles and meets my gaze. “Not Parisian. I just meant you’ve become a part of the captivating essence of this city for me. Like a memory you can’t forget once you’ve seen it.”
My pulse hammers, and I bite my lip to hide a smile. “You have a way with words, don’t you?”
He laughs softly. “Not words. Observation.”
We drift past the ?le Saint-Louis, the place we wandered through earlier.
From the water, the narrow streets look delightfully quaint, the rooftops stacked like careful brush strokes, ivy clinging to walls, tiny balconies spilling with brightly colored flowers.
I point out the little ice cream shop where we’d just been, and his eyes light up.
“You figured it out,” he says, his voice warm.
“Of course,” I reply, grinning. “How can I forget the place where I met lavender ice-cream?”
The boat slows near the Pont Neuf, and I watch as pedestrians cross above, oblivious to our little floating boat.
I can see the cafés where the morning bustle has begun, the clink of cups against saucers and the murmur of conversation carried on the wind.
It’s magical, surreal, and utterly Parisian.
Axel leans toward me under the pretense of pointing out a gargoyle on a bridge. His body brushes mine, and I feel the faintest heat at the contact.
“See that?” he murmurs. “That kind of craftsmanship is gone.”
I glance at it, nodding, but my eyes keep flicking to him. “Yup,” I agree, letting my tone match his, intimate, soft, teasing.
He smiles, clearly noticing my distraction. “You’re not really looking at the gargoyle, are you?”
“Maybe not entirely,” I admit, laughing softly.
“Good,” he murmurs. His hand brushes mine again, lingering just a fraction longer than a casual brush would entail. “Because I’m not really looking either.”
My heart twists in a way I can’t quite name. The boat passes Pont Marie, the elegant arches reflected in the water, and Axel points out a small café on the quay below.
“I bet that’s the kind of place you’d pick,” he says, eyes teasing. “Hidden, charming, full of character.”
I grin. “You think you know me so well, don’t you?”
“Am I right?” he asks softly, brushing the hair whipping around my face.
I feel warmth spread through me, dizzying and comforting all at once. “Attention can be dangerous,” I murmur.
“Not if it’s the right kind,” he whispers.
The boat rounds a bend near the ?le de la Cité, and I catch the light glinting off the buildings, the water shimmering around us in flecks of silver and gold.
The reflection of the city feels like magic beneath us, an endless painting moving with the waves.
Axel leans closer, shoulder brushing the side of my breasts, and I’m acutely aware of every subtle movement, every shared glance.
We talk about everything and nothing; how the Seine has inspired painters for centuries, the little quirks of Parisian architecture, our favorite art and books, the stories we’ve never told anyone else.
There’s laughter, teasing, a brush of fingers over a shared railing, and I feel the hours slipping by without us noticing.
At one point, Axel points out a tiny rooftop garden on a building above the quay.
“I bet the person who lives there loves that they wake up to this every day,” he says. “Can you imagine?”
I nod, smiling. “I can. And I bet they’re secretly jealous of us, floating by like this.”
He laughs, a low, rich sound. “If I were him, I too would be jealous of a man who has such a beautiful boating companion.”
My chest tightens, and I let my fingers linger in his.