Page 31 of City of Love

“No,” he mutters. “I just—like the way you smell.” He clears his throat, not quite meeting my eye. “Like cinnamon,” he adds.

Well, would you look at that—my unflappable Noel Marchand is blushing and avoiding eye contact.

No, wait—notmyNoel. Just…Noel. Noel, who belongs not to me but to himself, is actually embarrassed.

And it’s kind of adorable.

I try to hide my smile so I don’t embarrass him further. “All right,” I say. “I’ll keep the cinnamon. I like it, anyway.” I pause and then say, “Nowwe can go.”

***

It doesn’t end up taking very long for me to get a metro card, and once that’s done, we go to the store.

Carrefour, as it turns out, is basically like the French version of Walmart, although according to Noel it isn’t just in France. I don’t really care where it is as long as I can find some good shampoo here. It’s freezing cold inside, and I’m grateful that I went with the blazer. I can’t believe Noel’s teeth aren’t chattering—his fitted t-shirt can’t possibly be keeping him warm—but he doesn’t seem to notice the chill.

He’s weird like that, I guess.

He navigates the store with a confidence that tells me he’s been here before, which solidifies my Carrefour-is-basically-Walmart theory. I hate going to stores like Walmart, but somehow I end up going a lot anyway. I’ll be interested to see what the register situation is like here. Because Walmart, I’ve noticed, has like a billion lanes to check out in, and yet at any given time it seems like only two or three of them are open.

What’s the point of all those lanes if you’re not going to use them?

But whatever. We make fairly decent time getting in and out, Noel quietly steering me where we need to go while I just gape at all the French brands. I buy a few packs of French cookies, because eating foreign junk food is all part of the authentic experience—or so I tell Noel—and then we move on to our next stop. It’s not until we’re actually on the metro that Noel fills me in at all.

“All right,” he says, scooting closer to me while keeping a wary eye on the guy across from us. The guy looks to be a little older—early thirties, maybe—and his gaze has been dancing over me since we sat down. I can already tell Noel is one of those overprotective types like Ian, but I haven’t figured out if it’s endearing or annoying yet.

“All right,” I repeat, prompting Noel to go on.

He finally looks over at me. “Right. Here’s the deal—”

But I hold up one hand to stop him. “Let’s try again,” I say, because hereallyneeds to work on the bossy thing. Maybe it’s childish, but I don’t like being told what to do. “Don’t just give me orders.”

Noel mutters something under his breath in French—and I barely conceal my smirk—before he clears his throat. “Here’s what I think would work best,” he says, and I nod my approval. “I’ve got something specific I need to pick up at Dubail. I’d like you to stand off to the side, if that’s all right. I’d rather not involve you in this business.”

I nod. “That’s fine.”

He looks at me with surprise, and I give a little laugh. “I don’t expect you to tell me all your secrets, Noel,” I say. “I just don’t want you to give me orders. Don’t treat me like your loyal follower or something.”

Noel gives me a wry smile. “Butaren’tyou my loyal follower?”

I jab him with my elbow, and he laughs softly. It’s a pleasant sound, and I find myself smiling too.

“Okay, I’ll just find a place to sit,” I say. “Fancy places like this usually have waiting areas or something, right?”

Noel shrugs. “Probably,” he says.

I nod, crossing one foot over my knee and rolling my ankle a bit. “These heels are gorgeous,” I say, changing the subject, “but they’re not the most comfortable things to be traipsing around Paris in.”

“I wouldn’t imagine so,” Noel says, looking musingly at them. “They look good, though.Youlook good.” He hesitates for a second, his eyes flitting quickly up my body. Then he looks away and says, “I didn’t expect you to look so…grown up. We started writing when you were sixteen, and that’s what’s been in my mind.”

“I always tried to imagine what you would look like, too, but…” I wave my hand vaguely at him. “Well, you know. You’re a man. So I got it wrong.”

He grins at me. “I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe if I grew my hair I could pass for a woman.”

“Definitely not,” I say with a snort of laughter, quelling the urge to look over at him and catalogue his decidedly masculine features. “You could pass for a woman just about as well as I could pass for a man.”

“You’d be a scrawny little man,” he says, still grinning. He reaches up and puts a finger under my chin, tilting my head to the right and then the left. “With absolutely nothing manly to recommend you. I bet you like to wear dresses, too.”

I laugh. “I do, actually. I think they’re more comfortable.”

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