Page 44 of City of Love

“Lock the door when you’re in here,” I grit out.

Her smile disappears, replaced by a flash of hurt. That brief glimpse of pain on her face pulls at something deep down inside, and I find myself wanting to apologize for every wrong thing I’ve ever done.

I don’t get a chance to, though, because the hurt morphs into irritation.

“You could try asking nicely,” she says coolly, one brow raised, hand on her hip. “There’s no need to be rude.”

I sigh, scrubbing my hand over my face. “I know,” I say, deflating. “I’m sorry.” She’s right, of course; it’s not her fault I’m annoyed.

I’m annoyed at myself. But I can’t very well explain to her why. I can’t tell her that I’m attracted to her against my will. It’s not her problem anyway.

When I swing my gaze back up to hers, her face has softened a little.

“I’ll lock the door next time,” she says, and she doesn’t sound irritated anymore. “I wanted to listen to music after I got out of the shower, so I must not have heard you knock. I won’t give you an eyeful again.” She gestures to her leg and gives me a smile, but it looks a little forced.

And now I feel like the world’s biggest jerk, and it’s a bizarre feeling. I don’tregretthings. What’s happening to me? I’m going soft, and she hasn’t even been here a week.

“You’re beautiful,chérie,” I say softly. “I didn’t mean to imply you weren’t—”

“You better not have. Because I have great legs,” Lydia says archly.

A smile flits over my lips at this. “You do have great legs,” I agree, my smile widening. “I’m just not used to living with a woman who isn’t my mother. Don’t worry about it, all right?”

She sighs. “All right.” Then she straightens up and points at me. “But we’re going to work on your habit of bossing people around in your grumpy voice.”

I grin at her. “Maybe Ilikebossing people around in my grumpy voice. Did you ever think of that?”

She gives a snort of laughter. “It’s obvious youdolike it. And that’s fine for other people if they’re okay with it. But not me.”

“I’ll work on it,” I promise.

“Thank you,” she says primly. “Now out.” She shoos me out, and I shake my head with amusement as I go, closing the door behind me.

That didn’t go at all like I expected, but I have a feeling things rarely do when Lydia is involved.

***

The next three days are spent taking Lydia around Paris in between my shifts at the bar. I only work part time, so I’m still able to accompany her with her class to several tourist sites. I enjoy myself more than I expected I would; Lydia makes me laugh, and seeing the city through her eyes makes me feel like I’m experiencing all these places for the first time.

There’s something about Lydia—an optimism, a softness—that I both envy and crave. When I’m with her, I’m reminded of what the worldcouldbe. Paris as Lydia sees it is a beautiful, magical place. Because Lydia is just a beautiful, magical woman. Pretty words of poetry, I know, but those words fit. She’s bold and brave and yet somehow still undeniably sweet. There’s nothing jaded or cynical about her. I’ve never met anyone like her. And I knew these things about her before she came here, but the effect is so much more potent when we’re actually together.

When Friday afternoon rolls around, I find myself wishing I didn’t need to meet with the Saints tonight. Not that I was ever excited about it to begin with, but I was anxious to have the whole ordeal over with. I have a shift at the bar first, too, which will only serve to put me more on edge—four hours of just waiting.

And I’ll need to go soon. Lydia and I are in the guest bedroom, watchingClueless; I put up a decent fight, but ultimately she won with the promise that tomorrow we could watch a movie of my choosing. She claims this film is a classic and that it’s a travesty I haven’t seen it.

I disagree completely, but I am enjoying hearing her laugh every five minutes.

When Lydia notices me looking at the time on my phone, she pauses the movie and looks over at me. We’re both stretched out on our stomachs in front of her laptop, but now she rolls onto her back.

“Do you have to go?” she says, talking to the ceiling.

“Yes,” I say, my lips quirking at how forlorn she sounds. “Soon.”

She glances at me. “Alternate proposal: how about youdon’tgo to work, and you stay here with me instead.”

I shake my head, still smiling as I sit up.

“Don’t laugh at me,” she says, but now she’s grinning. “I told you I was going to follow you around Paris like a puppy dog, and you agreed.”

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