Page 120 of Bottles & Blades

“Shower if you want, buttercup, and slip into your pajamas.” I nudge her into the space, ornate with marble and a full-sized sink and a shower that doesn’t feel cramped. “I need to make a couple of calls and then I’ll join you.”

“In bed? Or in the shower?”

“Trouble,” I growl, wrapping my arm around her waist and drawing her against me. I taste her, deep and long and wet, knowing that’s what she wants, loving that she’s confident enough to tease me.

Case in point?

Her smile when I lift my head and she asks, “Well? Which is it?”

I tap her nose. “I’d rather our first shower together not come when we’re at risk of running out of hot water.” I swat her bottom lightly then nudge her toward the bathroom. “Shower, baby. Then bed.” And when I see that wicked gleam creep into her eyes, I tell her, “And no Mile High Club yet either.”

When I see the protest forming, I lean closer.

“Our first time isn’t going to be within earshot of anyone, buttercup. Especially not the people who are going to serve us breakfast in a few hours.”

Pink cheeks. “Oh,” she whispers. “Right.”

“Shower,” I say again. “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay, honey.”

Then I slip out of the room to make those calls.

But none of them have anything to do with business.

Unless I’m counting them as the business of wooing my woman.

Thirty-Seven

Tiff

“What time is your meeting?”I ask as I take a bite of absolutely the best baguette I’ve ever tasted in my life.

“Later,” he tells me.

I set the bread down—and I’ll tell ya, putting down those delicious carbs costs me.

But that’s the third time he’s told me that.

The first was over a spread of fruit and pastries and coffee that was truly inspired.

The second was during lunch at a cozy cafe with soup and salads and a slice of chocolate mousse cake, after we spent the morning at the Louvre, wandering through marble statues, getting lost amongst paintings that fill entire walls, winding through the packed crowd to see the Mona Lisa.

But my favorite was a huge marble statue that graces the top of the stairs. Called Winged Victory of Samothrace, it’s not perfect. The depiction of the Greek goddess, Nike, is missing her head and arms, but she’s beautiful and awe-inspiring. The movement in her clothing, the feathers on her wings—she took my breath away. I swear I must have stood there for five minutes, trying to absorb every single detail.

Jean-Michel hadn’t rushed me.

Just stood close to my back as I took in my fill.

Then we continued on through the rooms, soaking in the art, practicing my French, unable to believe that this is actually my life.

After getting our fill of the museum—not that I could really get my fill of something that would take me a lifetime to properly explore—we stopped at Jean-Mi’s favorite bakery, picking up the aforementioned delicious baguettes, then went to thefromagerieto pick up cheese, the butcher for sliced ham and salami.

And now we’re sitting on the steps opposite the Notre Dame, having a makeshift picnic.

Bread and butter. Meat and cheese. A tiny dessert that Jean-Mi picked up somewhere when I wasn’t paying attention.

But none of this is a critical meeting that warranted getting on a plane and flying halfway around the world.

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