Chapter 28
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
JO
The morning has slipped by, the Seine and the river cruise leaving a warm, quiet buzz in my chest, the kind that makes me feel like I have stumbled into a dream.
Axel guides me through the streets toward Le Comptoir du Relais.
The late morning sun is soft and golden on the narrow pavements, warming the stones.
The smell of fresh coffee drifts from cafés we pass, mingling with faint exhaust fumes from distant scooters.
The restaurant itself is classic Paris, small, intimate, and bustling in a charming, je ne sais quoi kind of way.
The terrace is a cluster of tiny iron tables and chairs, pressed close together, each with a little vase holding a single rose bloom.
Patrons chatter in a melodic mix of French and foreign languages, as waiters weave expertly through the tables, balancing plates and glasses.
I glance at the facade, orange brick and cream with striped awnings in soft burgundy, and I feel a thrill at how perfect the scene feels, how Parisian.
This whole trip has been a dream.
Because of Axel.
Axel pulls out the chair for me, and I slide into it, brushing against his hand.
The contact sparks that familiar zing, making me aware of the warmth of his arm so close to mine.
Our butts are barely on the seats when a waiter approaches and asks for our drink order.
We ask for a couple of glasses of white wine, and he nods and scurries away, returning quickly with two large glasses of white wine.
I taste mine and find it to be tangy and refreshing.
The waiter takes our food order, and he’s off again.
“This is a perfect spot,” Axel murmurs, sitting across from me. “We can see the whole street. And you can people watch, maybe invent lives for strangers.”
I laugh, a little breathless from excitement and anticipation. “You really do know me too well. That’s exactly what I was thinking of doing.”
The terrace hums with life. To my left, an Italian couple argues over their menus, their hands gesturing wildly with emotion.
Across the street, a middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed beard walks a tiny dog that prances with exaggerated elegance, sniffing every lamp post like it owns the neighborhood.
A frowning young woman hurries by, earbuds in, scrolling through her cell phone as if her whole life is contained in that tiny screen.
I take it all in, the colors, the smells, the movement.
I feel like a painter poised before a canvas, ready to capture every fleeting detail.
Axel leans in slightly as he gestures toward a couple leaving the café.
“Let’s start the game. That’s your first subject.”
I grin. “All right, let’s see … They look like they’ve been married forever. And… the way the woman is holding the man’s arm is almost like she’s scared to let go. I bet he’s a famous writer who publishes under a pseudonym and she’s an aging model who is afraid of younger competition.”
He chuckles, and there’s a gleam in his eye I can’t resist.
“Nice. But I think they’re Russian secret service. And they’re on a very hush-hush, top-level mission right now to discover the best pain au chocolat in Paris.”
I laugh, nearly choking on the sip of my wine I just took. “Russian spies? That’s absurd. And that is not how this game is played. You’re supposed to find clues by their appearance. Like a Russian accent or a hat or something.”
“They are unlikely to be wearing Russian hats at this time of the year, are they? But anyway, I will play by your limiting rules,” he says, leaning closer across the table.
I shake my head, and we continue our game as the waiters move around us, taking orders and balancing plates.
Axel’s eyes flick to each passerby, picking out tiny details.
A scarf tied just so, a flick of the hair, or the way someone hunches or strides, and immediately invents an outrageous story centered around that detail.
His silly stories are infectious, and I find myself doing the same, delighting in how playful, ridiculous, and vivid our invented lives are becoming.
“Look at him with the yellow bowtie,” I whisper, nodding toward a man in a pinstripe suit and shiny shoes, marching with a briefcase. “I bet he’s a magician pretending to be a lawyer to hide from the FBI.”
Axel lowers his voice, conspiratorial and solemn. “I agree. There is definitely a rabbit in his briefcase.”
I grin, feeling that flutter in my stomach again, the one that makes it impossible to think about anything else except the way Axel leans in towards me when he speaks and the warmth of his hand brushing mine.
“Wouldn’t that be something to witness?”
“And maybe he’s trying to impress someone,” Axel murmurs, his voice a fraction lower, carrying that undertone I can’t ignore. “Someone he knows is watching from a terrace, intrigued by the charm and absurdity of it all.”
I pretend to sip my wine, though I’m acutely aware of the way his eyes are on me, sharp, assessing, teasing. “Oh really? And who might that be?” I ask airily.
“A very lucky man,” he says, his lips twitching. “A man who has the best view in all of Paris.”
“You are ridiculous,” I murmur and try to hide the flush of pleasure and discomfiture flooding into my neck and face by looking away to the street, but the warmth has spread too far, too quickly.
He laughs and leans back, satisfied.
The waiter arrives with our lunch. The plates are effortlessly elegant—classic French fare served with a casual panache. I’ve chosen salmon en papillote with a small salad and roasted potatoes. The dish smells lush and fragrant. Axel’s deep red, rich beef bourguignon looks delicious.
We dig in, savoring the first bites. I close my eyes for a second, tasting the tender salmon, the subtle herbs, and the delicate crisp of the potatoes. Axel watches me, amused, as I hum in appreciation.
“Good?” he asks, teasing.
“Good?” I repeat, grinning. “It’s exquisite. I’d almost say it’s Parisian magic on a plate.”
He smirks. “Almost?”
I roll my eyes, laughing. “All right, yes, it’s magic.”
Our game resumes even with the food before us, now inventing elaborate backstories for other diners. An older woman with a hat too large for the sunny day is, in my imagination, an international jewel thief who has sewn diamonds worth millions of dollars into the brim of her hat.
“I like how creative you are,” he murmurs, a grin tugging at his lips. “I think you could make anyone’s life interesting.”
I feel that familiar rush of heat and delight, the thrill of how close he is, and the unspoken tension building between us. “Even yours?” I ask, teasing but with my pulse racing.
“Even mine,” he says, his eyes locking on mine in a way that makes me momentarily forget the terrace, the street, the entire city.
The sun has climbed higher, painting the terrace in golden light.
I notice how it catches the subtle glint of gold in Axel’s green eyes, how the warm light plays off his jawline.
And I realize that this, this playful, teasing, intimate connection, is exactly the kind of moment that Paris was made for.
“Next time,” I murmur. “I’ll do you the next time we come back here.”
“Okay, next time it is,” he echoes, and I catch that glint in his eyes, the promise, the thrill, the spark. I know there won’t really be a next time, that we only have this weekend, but I play along because if all we have is this weekend, then I want to savor every second.