Page 57 of It Happened In Paris

“And now?” He ran his fingertips up and down my arms. “Things could be quite ideal, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but… damn you, Richard. Why does everything in your life always move at the speed of light? I like our slow pace right now. We’re still in the getting-to-know-each-other phase.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “How many phases are there? I’m clueless—explain it to me.”

Before I could answer, his phone rang from the pocket of his sweatpants.

“I’ll get it for you.” I hopped off of him and reach for the pocket.

“It’s probably nothing important. Leave it.”

“Nope, I’m getting it.”

“Fine, Vivian. We’ll put a pin in this conversation, but I want us to talk about our future soon, okay?”

I handed him the phone. “And as a Buchanan, when you want something, you get it.”

“You got that right, cupcake… Hello?”

I went to check on Paris. She and her tutor were just finishing up. After discussing her progress, I brought her into the kitchen to help me make my salted caramel cupcakes. During our first week here, Richard had asked for a detailed list of what I needed for baking. Knowing I had everything available kept me busy making their favorites.

Paris was improving each day, although she still grew tired easily. We kept a light schedule—short tutoring sessions, coloring, warm bubble baths, and cuddles. The penthouse had become her playground, with its vast windows and glitteringcity lights making her feel as though she were living in a storybook.

We worked on the recipe together, chatting and listening to music until the cupcakes were finally in the oven.

“There are my girls,” Richard announced as he appeared, sweatpants back in place, shirt unevenly buttoned, and his hair slightly disheveled. He still needed a bath and a change of clothes.

“Just in time to lick the bowl,” Paris said, holding up her spatula coated in dough.

“Oh, yeah.” He dipped a finger into the dough and licked it. “Mmm. Salted caramel? My favorite.”

“Just a little treat for you,” I said.

Suddenly, Paris fell silent, her eyes teary.

“What’s wrong,mon cœur?” Was she hurting? Had baking been too much for her today?

“I want to see Daddy’s scar,” she mumbled, her small fingers hovering near the bandage under his shirt. “Is it like mine?”

She had never been curious before—she scarcely liked looking at her own.

Having seen both scars, I said, “They’re almost identical. Are you sure you want to see?”

She nodded, and Richard agreed. He pulled his shirt up, revealing his scar.

“See, my love? Very similar to yours.” I pointed toward it.

Paris then lifted her own shirt, and after glancing at it, she said, “They are the same. Can I get a tattoo over it when I’m big? Like a heart around the scar?”

Richard’s eyes widened. “Uh, let’s wait until you’re twenty-one before you ask again.”

“Okay,” she shrugged. “I’m off to my treehouse.” With that, she happily walked away.

“You know, if you give her that black card when she’s sixteen, the first thing she might do is get a tattoo,” I teased, running my hands up behind his neck.

“Right. No black card. I get it now. There’s a lot to learn about being a dad, isn’t there?” he shook his head.

I laughed. “Parenthood can be equally challenging and satisfying. Still want another child?”

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