Page 26 of Meet Hate Love
“Move those little stumps you call legs.”
My attention dropped to the pint of beer sitting on the edge of a table ahead of me. The temptation to grab it and chuck it at Vance was strong. “I hope you trip on those stilts you walk on!” It was a terrible attempt at an insult, but it was the best I could do, given the brain fog from travel.
He chuckled before ducking underneath one of the iconic green metro signs looming over the stairs to the tunnels. In the time it took me to catch up with him, he’d already purchased tickets. He took his receipt from the machine and stuffed it into his pocket. “Here,” he said, handing me a tiny paper ticket before he took off.
“Do you even know where you’re going?”
“Yes. We’re going to line nine.”
The distinct notes of “Clair de Lune” being played on an accordion drifted through the crowded tunnel as we pushed through the turnstile. “And I’m just supposed to trust you?”
“Yes.”
I picked up my pace, bypassing him, when I spotted M9 on an overhead sign.Call me slow…
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To line nine…”
The rumble of the train on the tracks echoed up the stairwell. Everyone around me took off in a sprint down the steps, and I followed suit.Halfway down the steps, the train whizzed into the station, screeching to an abrupt halt in front of the busy platform.
“Blake!”
“We’re going to be late.” I grinned like a fool when the metro doors opened, and I shot into one of the packed cars.
Vance clamored in just as the doors slammed shut and the train took off.
“I’m fast when it counts.” I stared up at him.
He stared down at me with those fuck-me green eyes. The little tic of his jaw practically reached between my thighs. “You got on the wrong train.”
“I got on the number nine.”
“Going in the opposite direction of the Louvre.”
Well, shit. Smiling, I patted the slight stubble on his sharp jaw. “I’m just giving you all kinds of good material for your articles. You’re welcome.”
* * *
We gotoff the train at the next stop and boarded the one goingtowardthe Louvre.And, as my lack of luck would have it,a few stops before the museum,a lovely woman a seat up from us vomited on the floor.
The second the doors had opened, Vance was off. I had to practically run to keep up with his ridiculous stride. After the third flight of concrete stairs, I stopped to catch my breath while Vance stood at the top, waiting.
“A sloth could beat you in a race,” he called down the steps.
I would kill him before the end of this trip. I could feel it. “A sloth wouldn’t enter a race. So, your point isn’t very valid.”
Ten seconds after I’d made it to the top, the man was already a good twenty feet ahead of me. He could speed walk faster than a Hoveround could zoom.
The homey scent of freshly baked bread wafted out from an open bakery door, and my steps slowed. I stopped in front of the window, staring at the eclairs, beignets, and a plethora of tarts on display in the shop window with tiny black chalkboards behind them. The prices scribbled in chalk. Something told me with details like that, they had to taste delectable.
“I swear, you’re actually slowing down!” he called.
I spun around. “Actually, this…” I waved a hand over my non-mobile body, “is me stopping to take in all that Paris has to offer.” Because from the looks of those eclairs, this was absolutely why people came here. My tastebuds salivated at the thought of the delicate pastry. “I’m coming back for you,” I whispered before shoving away from the window.
We continued along the busy street, him stopping every few minutes to tap his foot and wait for me and my short legs to catch up. Eventually, the gargantuan palace-like taupe building came into view, along with the iconic glass pyramid. People taking selfies littered the open courtyard, and directly behind them, a long, zig-zaggy line.
After we’d zipped across a busy roundabout, I stopped to snap a few pictures.
