Page 5 of Marry Lies
“When do you leave Paris?” she asks. Her wide, curious blue eyes find mine. There’s something hopeful in them. Andfuck me,the irritation melts away.
“Tomorrow. Or, later today, I suppose. I’ve been here two days too many.”
Her lips press together into a playful pout. “No wonder you don’t like Paris. You’ve hardly been here long enough to appreciate it.”
“I’ve been to Paris plenty of times, and I always prefer to leave as soon as possible.”
She makes a noise that sounds halfway between indignance and annoyance. “Well, it seems I can’t convince you otherwise.” Her eyes are twinkling as she looks back up at me. “Have a safe flight home.”
I bite the inside of my cheek as she turns and walks away. But some small, dead part of me wishes to continue arguing with her. My trips to Paris are depressing and uneventful, and for whatever reason, I’ve enjoyed the banter between us.
Fuck, maybe I need more friends.
I speak before I can think. “Convince me? You haven’t convinced me of anything except hownotto engage with the naked woman in the fountain.”
I see her stiffen a few feet away. She spins around, smiling.
It’s like she smiles with her whole body. Open, accessible, lively.
She’s the complete opposite of me—but for some reason, I can’t ignore the magnetic pull between us.
“Oh, look who’s being cheeky,” she says, crossing her arms. “Truthfully, I didn’t think you had it in you with that stick shoved so far up your arse.”
I chuckle, feeling the tension of my whole body relax at her words. At our stupid argument. That familiar, hungry tug in my navel makes me take a step forward. And then another. I take in her posture—her narrow waist and wide hips. Her slender neck. Her pillowy lips. Her hair that’s starting to dry in loose ringlets and how her curls are twisted and crinkled across her forehead. She is delicate and ethereal.Somethingabout her plucks some chord inside of me, and I scrutinize her face harder.
I don’t know her, but I can’t stop the curiosity eating at me. I can’t stop engaging. It’s like Icarus and the sun.
Maybe this could be a fun fling.
One night of revelry before I go home.
Like I said before, she’s not my type, but a small part of me wants to prove her wrong.
I can be fun. Iknowhow to have fun.
I just don’t have time for fun. But here? Now?
Why not?
I can show her a good time.
If she’ll have me, that is.
My lips tug into the cocky smirk—the same one I can weaponize so easily when I want to—and I take a step closer.
“Convince me, then,” I murmur, holding my hands out in front of me as a show of my surrender. “If you had half a day in Paris, what would you do?”
She seems a bit unsure as I move closer—so close that I could reach out and touch her face. But instead of retreating, she takes a tiny step into me.
“I’d spend the day wandering around Île Saint-Louis. It’s a neighborhood on a small island in the middle of the Seine. I’d grab some ice cream at Berthillon, and I would just sit on a bench and soak it all up.” She has a far off look on her face as she spouts off her favorite things to do.
“You’d sit and eat ice cream?” I ask skeptically. “You wouldn’t go anywhere else?”
She shrugs, and her face loses its brightness for a second as she pulls her lower lip between her teeth.
“I don’tgoplaces in Paris. I let Paris come to me.”
I roll my eyes. “Really? Ice cream?”
