Page 25 of Blue Eyes & Paris Vibes

Eventually, we pull off the highway and wind through a small town that looks straight out of a postcard, with little stone houses that have flower boxes with all kinds of colorful plants on their windowsills and balconies, overhanging trees lining the narrow streets and high fences and walls keeping curious eyes at bay.

I slowly drive where an older man waves us in, guiding us to a free parking spot with a lazy kind of authority. As soon as the car is in park, I’m already out, walking around to her side. She’s just reaching for her seatbelt when I open the door for her, her hand pausing mid-motion, and she glances up at me, surprised.

“Such a gentleman,” she teases and takes my hand as she climbs out of the rental car, smoothing down her dress when she stands.

I rest my hand on the small of her back as we head toward the entrance. The sun’s beating down, bright and warm, and she slides on her sunglasses without missing a step. It’s the kind of day that feels made for wandering with clear skies and a soft breeze, perfect for a slow stroll to find out if the gardens look just as serene as in Monet's paintings.

When we reach the ticket counter, I pay before she can even try to stop me. I invited her, it’s only fair. She protests weakly and when I put my hand over her mouth to make her stop, she licks my palm, making both of us burst into laughter.

Spending time with her is so effortless. I don’t feel like I need to keep up a front, like I have an image to maintain. With her, I’m just Reed. Not the model, not with my last name and all the headlines of it, just Reed. Her presence makes me feel good about myself, makes all the tiny self-doubting voices in my head after that rude photoshoot yesterday, shut up.

Even though it’s a weekday, the place is packed with people. Families, couples, and tour groups gather around the entrance and linger by the small souvenir shop, flipping through postcards and picking up keychains. I take her hand, give it a gentle squeeze, and guide her past the crowd. Let everyone else fight over postcards and magnets. We’re here for the garden.

“It really looks straight out of a painting,” she says in awe, crunching along the gravel path, her eyes dancing over the array of flowers in wonder.

“Well, it basically is,” I reply with a grin. “Most of Monet’s late works were painted here.”

“Okay, Mister Wikipedia,” she giggles and bumps her shoulder against my upper arm. I shake my head at her with a grin and snake my arm around her waist, keeping her right there, flush against me.

We round a corner and there it is: Monet’s house. Soft pink walls with deep green shutters, ivy curling up the sides like it’s been painted on by the master himself. The whole place looks like it was ripped out of a storybook. A real-life cottage-core dream.

She stops in her tracks, eyes wide, taking it all in like she’s afraid it’ll disappear if she blinks.

“Are you kidding?” she whispers in awe, taking off her sunglasses to get a better look and walking a few steps closer while I stay in my spot. “This is stunning. If I lived here, I’d also feel really fucking inspired.”

She looks at me over her shoulder and catches me staring at her.

“I’m feeling really fucking inspired by this dress,” I murmur, stepping closer and pressing a kiss behind her ear. It’s been driving me crazy since I watched her step into it this morning, the way it clings just enough to show off her curves, then flares out at the waist, soft and floaty. The way it rides up her thighs when she moves and reveals more skin has my mind wrecked all damn day. “Can’t wait to take it off you later.”

She flushes a shade of red that nearly matches the roses behind her and playfully smacks my chest. “Don’t say stuff like that in public.”

I smirk. The way she avoids my eyes, bites her lip and starts to play with the fabric of her skirt tells me she likes it more than she wants to admit.

But she’s right. I’d rather wind her up in the privacy of a hotel room, when I can do so without being cockblocked by the public.

“Do you want to go inside?” I quickly change topics and her face breaks into a smile, her eyes lighting up.

“We can? I figured it was holy ground or something.”

“Looks like it.” I nod towards where a group of older women with matching hats currently streams out of the house.

I reach for her hand as we walk to the house, letting her lead the way. We step inside—and immediately regret it when we’re greeted with a wall of color.

“Wow,” she manages to whisper and I feel my face twist into a grimace.

Because it is. Walls, ceiling, chairs, fireplaces—everything is drenched in shades of yellow. It's like stepping into a field of sunflowers, but inside a house. Bright, warm, almost blinding in its cheerfulness. I keep my sunglasses on out of sheer survival instinct.

We both stare, caught somewhere between horror and awe. It’sso much yellowit’s almost impressive again.

“I can’t even hate it,” she finally whispers, dragging me further into the room.

“It’s like a car crash,” I add just as softly. “I want to look away, but I can’t.”

She playfully smacks my arm and shoots me a glare. “Don’t talk about car crashes. You’ll jinx one.”

“Sorry. But this is horrendous,” I whisper, catching a glare from two older women nearby who seem very impressed with Monet’s interior design skills.

“Yet kind of stylish,” she adds. We linger another beat, then spot another room. She nods toward it, and I tug her that way.

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