Page 58 of City of Love

“Beautiful,” I murmur. Then I look back up to Noel. “They’re really beautiful.”

He doesn’t say thank you, but I don’t expect him to. He’s horrible with compliments. Instead he just steps past me and under the water cascading down the rock.

I can’t help my laugh when he emerges again, spluttering and shaking his head—that thing all guys seem to do when they come out from under the water.

“Well,” he says, running his hands over his face, “did that check your box? I was spontaneous.”

I smile at him. “It was great. We’re going to do another spontaneous thing tomorrow.”

He just groans, and I laugh.

Chapter 18

Noel

For the next week, Lydia drags me on a variety of what she calls “adventures in spontaneity.” We hit a lot of the classic tourist sites in the city, sometimes accompanied by my mother, sometimes not. We visit the Louvre, where Lydia chooses two exorbitantly priced t-shirts from the gift shop and makes me put mine on so that the two of us are in matching art shirts for the rest of the day. Another day we go for a walk and end up ducking into a café where I choose a drink for Lydia while she chooses one for me.

I didn’t particularly love wearing the art shirt, and I would rather have chosen my own drink, but Lydia is having so much fun that I surprisingly can’t bring myself to complain. Besides, at least these spontaneous adventures don’t involve her touching my tattoos while I do my best not to pull her close and kiss her.

That urge was a fluke, I’m sure. In fact, I’m just going to put everything that happened that day down to a fluke. The staring at her lips, the sunscreen, the flirtatious comments—all flukes.

My father comes home from his business trip on Tuesday, and he’s happy to meet Lydia. He loves her immediately, of course, because it’s impossible not to. He tells her a bit about what his company does, and she seems genuinely interested, nodding as he goes on about the future of batteries. I’ve heard everything he says a million times, so I just watch Lydia instead, taking in her rapt expression—the way her eyes sparkle, the way her lips part slightly.

She’s gorgeous. Everything about her is gorgeous.

On Friday I slip out and head over to my flat so I can pass the watch off to Luc; Saturday is his meeting with Laurent. Once that’s done, though, I go right back to Lydia. When we’re not out and about, and when I’m not working, she and I just hang out. Sometimes in her room, sometimes in mine. We sit and talk, or sometimes we watch episodes of a show we both like. But ultimately, it doesn’t matter what we’re doing or where we are.

Because every single day, no matter what, Lydia injects magic into my world.

***

On Saturday afternoon, one week after the tattoo-touching, fluke-filled day, Lydia and I are in her bedroom. I’m sitting with my back against the headboard, and she’s lying with her head in my lap. We were both reading, but Lydia has fallen asleep, and I’m paying less attention to my book now than I am to her. Her hair is fanned out over my crossed legs, and I brush a few strands off her face.

Part of me wants to let her sleep, but the other part of me—a bizarre part that I barely recognize—misses her company and wants to find out what her spontaneous activity of the day is.

If you would have told me a week ago that I would be acting like this over a girl—even one as awesome as Lydia—I would have said you were crazy. Heck, Lucdidtell me that a week ago, and I told him he was crazy. And yet here I am, missing her even though she’s asleep with her head on my lap. Wondering what crazy things she’s going to come up with next. I’ve never been friends with someone like her. I mean, we wrote for years before this, but it’s different being with her in person. I’m not sure how I feel about all these…feelings.

I decide to let Lydia sleep for fifteen more minutes before I wake her. She’s peaceful in sleep, sweet and serene. After those fifteen minutes, though, I begin stroking her hair. “Lydia,” I say softly, not wanting to startle her.

She doesn’t move.

“Lydia,” I say a little louder, picking up a chunk of her hair and using it to tickle her neck. She twitches for a second before slapping blindly at her neck, and I grin. “Lydia,” I say again, giving her shoulder a little shake.

She stirs, her arms stretching slowly as she lets out a little mewling sound.

“Get a good nap?” I say, brushing more hair off her forehead.

She rubs her eyes and then sits up, looking blearily at me.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” she says.

“I don’t mind,” I say with a shrug. “You were tired. And I have been told before that I make a comfortable pillow.”

“Who’s been using you as a pillow?” she says, a little frown tugging at her full lips.

“Why?” I say, giving her a little smile. “Jealous?”

“What? No,” she says quickly. “I’m not—I mean, if a girl—if someone wants to use you as a pillow—”

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