Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
LUCA
“Where are you taking me?” I plead, following Jemma through the streets of my neighborhood. My darling little house guest has been very mysterious since demanding I join her for an unplanned outing this evening.
She crinkles her cute slender nose sprinkled with barely noticeable freckles—but of course, I noticed—and flashes me a playful grin.
“It’s a surprise!” she chirps, yanking on my arm, tugging me down the busy sidewalk.
“I’m supposed to be showing you around Paris. Not the other way around. Are you sure you know where you’re going?” I tease, knowing I’m about to get a rise out of her.
“Yes. I know exactly where I’m going.” She turns to me with an exaggerated pout, her perfectly shaped eyebrows raised.
“You’re kind of a control freak, aren’t you?
You really need to chill and let me take the reins today.
” She impishly stomps her black-booted foot into the ground—her flat black boot, that is.
I think she’s over heels, and with good reason.
I’m not going to lie; I got off a bit teasing her about the cobblestones.
I think it brought us closer together, though.
And damn did those heels make her legs look great.
Focus.
She’s staring at me, waiting for a response, and I can’t help but chuckle.
“Luca!”
“Lead the way.” I motion for her to continue.
I’ll give her credit; she’s feisty, but there’s a sweetness peeking out from behind her walls.
I love the way she challenges me, like on the plane when she thought I had her seat.
And when she thought I lied to her. I didn’t lie to her about needing to be home, but I haven’t been completely honest with her either.
I never expected to fall for her. This wasn’t part of the plan. I only wanted to help her out of a bad situation.
Don’t get me wrong—she’s absolutely gorgeous, a little frustrating at first, but that’s what drew me to her. Okay, hell—I’m a freaking liar—the moment I first laid eyes on her, I was taken by her. I never thought I’d see her again. But fate has a funny way of tossing things back at you, doesn’t it?
When she called me that day, I knew I had to help her, but that was it.
I would help Jemma find a place to stay and call it my good deed for the day, but once again, the universe had other plans for us.
How was it possible that Paris, of all places, had zero availability?
Well, it did have some vacancy, but there’s no way in hell I was going to drop her off at one of the run-down hostels or seedy places my brother found for her. Jemma deserved better.
But still, I had no intention of falling for her.
I have too much on my plate right now. I should have been honest with her, but what’s the point when she’s leaving at the end of the month? We’ll probably never see each other again.
“Almost there.” She beams, her smile practically reaching her eyes.
When we cross the Seine, over the Pont Royal, I know exactly where she’s leading us.
“Et voilà,” Jemma announces, her blueish-green eyes sparkling triumphantly. It’s so cute when she speaks French; she’s much better at it than she realizes, especially when she stops overthinking it.
We’re standing at the entrance to La Magie de Noel, the Christmas Market at the Jardin des Tuileries—my mother’s favorite holiday tradition. My heart swells in my chest, feeling as if it might burst.
“I wanted to repay you for trying”—she makes little air quotes with her fingers—“to recreate a Christmas memory for me. Although, I think it’s been replaced by a new one now.” She bites her bottom lip and tugs on her braid.
It’s something I’ve seen her do several times, and it tortures me. I want to grab her right here on the street and pull her close. I’ve never wanted anyone as badly as I want her right now. My mouth twitches, itching to kiss her.
I wish things didn’t have to be so complicated. The other morning was a bit of a slip—a good slip—but I shouldn’t let it happen again. It’s not fair to her.
Maybe in another lifetime. If things didn’t start off the way they did . . .
No matter what, I want to enjoy my time with her while it lasts. Does that make me a bad person?
Her features knit together, noticing my lack of reaction. “I hope this is okay?” she softly says, shrinking into herself.
“Oh, my goodness, yes. C’est parfait,” I respond, flashing her a grateful smile. It’s more than okay. It’s perfect—she’s perfect.
I don’t deserve you.
“You really are one of a kind, Jemma with a J.” Without thought, I grab her dainty hand, weaving my fingers through hers.
Her touch is electrifying. I’ll miss this when she’s gone. The thought of her leaving sends a shockwave through my body. I wish things were different, but we’ll always have this moment. We’ll always have Paris.
Her eyes sparkle with delight when we enter the market. I watch as her eyes bounce from one wooden chalet to another.
“It’s like half-carnival, half-market?” she says, her gaze lingering on the towering Ferris wheel. “I see why this was your mother’s favorite tradition. It’s absolutely amazing.”
“It really is the gem of Paris this time of year, but it can be a bit overwhelming, so let me take it from here,” I offer, guiding Jemma toward a stall draped in garland.
I know this surprise is meant for me, but the need to take charge wells up within me. I want to ensure Jemma experiences everything this magical Christmas market has to offer. She’s slowly finding her joy again, and this might just be the frosting on the cookie that makes it happen.
When we approach the stall, a friendly vendor asks, “How many?”
I flash him two fingers.
He ladles steaming red liquid from a copper cauldron into two tall cups and sprinkles a dash of nutmeg on top before exchanging them for a few euros.
Jemma shimmies next to me, rubbing her arm into mine. “Brrr,” she murmurs.
“This will warm you up.” I pass a cup to her, holding back the urge to wrap her in my arms. “No Christmas market can be enjoyed without first having a cup of vin chaud, hot mulled wine.”
Jemma cups the drink in her hand, bringing it to her nose to inhale the fragrant blend of spices. Her face lights up before she takes a sip, and a smile breaks across her glossy lips. “Wow, c’est incroyable.”
I flash her a satisfied smile. “Okay, now we’re free to enjoy the rest of the market.” I laugh.
With our warm cups in our hands, we begin to explore, weaving in and out of chalets, checking out each vendor.
I know I said it before, but I love watching Jemma experience Paris.
Each new sight sparks a light within her.
I wish I could have spent time with her this past week, but I had other responsibilities that needed my attention.
“Be right back. You wait here,” Jemma commands, dashing into an overflowing stall of handcrafted ornaments.
I do as I’m told. I watch as she thoughtfully plucks an item from a display, a pleased look settling across her face.
A few moments later, she returns. “For your tree.” She grins, tucking a small package into her purse.
“Do I get to see it?” I question.
She shakes her head as her front teeth teasingly nibble on her bottom lip, slightly torturing me. “It’s a surprise.”
My eyes are busy trailing the outline of her mouth when she grabs my wrist and pulls me down the corridor. “Can we get one of those next?” Her gaze is now pointing directly at a ham raclette sandwich.
“Sure.” I chuckle.
“Will you let me walk and eat it at the same time?” she says with a bit of sass as she dances around me. “Please, s’il te pla?t,” she taunts.
Gosh, she’s cute.
“You’re something else, Jemma.” Another laugh escapes me. “This is one place I’ll allow it.” I wag my finger at her.
We already share inside jokes. Boy, am I screwed. I’ve let this go way too far.
I’m following Jemma, but before we can make it to the hut where the large wheel of melted cheese awaits, ready to be lavishly scooped onto sandwiches, Jemma comes to an abrupt halt.
She twirls around, her eyes lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Oh, Luca. Regarde, c’est le Père Noel. Pouvons-nous prendre une photo?” Jemma bursts out in perfect French, a proud smile lighting up her beautiful features.
With a weary shake of my head, I surrender to Jemma. Seeing her this excited for a holiday she’s written off and coming at me in perfect French, sends my heart into a flutter for more than one reason.
I let her drag me into the line to get our photo with Santa. Normally, I would find this silly, but for her, I’ll do anything.
Things are becoming more complicated by the second. I need to be honest with her. But the truth could shatter everything. All the trust I’ve built could be gone in a flash.
I can’t keep pretending. I need to be honest with her.
“Jemma, there’s something I need to tell you,” I muster the courage to say, my voice barely breaking through the noise of the crowd.
She doesn’t hear me.
I clear my throat to start again, but the line shuffles forward.
“Jemma, there’s something I want to tell you,” I say again.
This time, she hears me. She whips around, her hair brushing against my face, and her blueish-green eyes clock onto mine, wide and questioning.
“Entrer,” a lady calls out, motioning for us to step forward.
We step up and into the cozy wooden chalet adorned with over-the-top festive décor, where Santa sits regally in the center on a large chair. Jemma and I take our places beside him, ready for our photo.
Just as the photographer shouts, “Souriez,” I spot her in the crowd.
My chest tightens.
She sees me too.
I’m not ready to deal with this right here, and especially not in front of Jemma. I need time to explain.
This can’t be happening.
Her eyes are wildly trained on me, coming forth with rage.
The photographer snaps another photo.
My worlds are colliding. There’s no stopping it now.
Colette is about to ruin everything.