Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
“I can’t believe we’re really here,” I whisper, as if saying it too loudly might shatter the magic.
Axel’s lips curve into that half smile I can never quite read. “You’ve wanted this for a long time, haven’t you?” he asks, a teasing note in his voice.
I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant but failing miserably. “Maybe. I’ve always wanted to come here. And I mean I am only just over the Channel. It’s just one of those things that kept getting pushed aside for other things.”
He chuckles, the sound low and warm, brushing past me as he adjusts his sleeve. “I’m glad I get to witness this side of you – the serious restorer turned art tourist. Don’t get too excited; I’m judging your enthusiasm already.”
“Oh, please,” I tease back, pretending to glare at him. “I’m a professional at containing excitement. And besides, I happen to think you’re just jealous.”
He raises an eyebrow, his eyes glinting, and he leans slightly closer. “Jealous? Me? Of a museum?”
“Of me looking like a giddy child,” I say, grinning and ducking my head because his laughter is filling the air around us. It’s impossible not to smile.
We step inside the Louvre, and the grand marble halls swallow us up in their vastness. The high ceilings, frescoed in elaborate detail, make my jaw drop, and this is just the foyer. I know every corridor is going to be a labyrinth of history, each gallery more breathtaking than the last.
Axel shows the guy manning the counter our tickets, and he waves us inside. I trail slightly behind Axel as we enter the first gallery, my gaze bouncing between the statues and the paintings, savoring the exquisite beauty of every single thing in there, while the quiet murmur of the other visitors around us washes over me.
“Look at this one,” I whisper, pointing to a marble sculpture of a woman frozen mid-dance. “The smooth perfection of the stone, the tension in the figure’s muscles. It’s mesmerizing.”
Axel follows my gesture, tilting his head. “Thank God you’ll not be critiquing sculptures in French,” he says, his voice teasing.
I laugh, nudging him lightly with my elbow. “Don’t tempt me. I might. Très Bien, très bien.”
And we both laugh at my terrible French accent.
We wander further into the gallery, stopping to admire a series of Renaissance paintings. I read the plaques, whispering little facts I’ve remembered from previous studies.
“Wow! Look at the use of light here,” I murmur. “Amazing, how it guides your eye to the focal point. The artist wants us to follow the story, not just stare at the paint. Amazing. Just amazing.”
Axel hums appreciatively, his arm brushing mine as we move. “I like that you notice things. Most people just stand there quietly, then move on.”
“You mean, most people haven’t had the chance to get a trained eye,” I reply with mock pride. “I’m basically saving you from cultural ignorance.”
He grins. “I’ll try not to be offended by that.”
I laugh, throwing him a playful glance. “Oh, don’t be. I’m very picky about who I choose to educate. You should be flattered.”
“Who knew you were entertaining and educational?” he says smoothly.
The joking and soft laughter continue, as we drift from gallery to gallery, our steps unhurried, our conversation effortless. He listens as I talk about the pieces. Occasionally, he teases me, and at other times he challenges my points, and I find myself leaning into him more than I thought possible. Every brush of his arm, every shared glance feels electric and full of meaning. Eventually, the hunger I’ve been ignoring nudges me as we leave one gallery.
“I think we should eat,” I declare, glancing around. “There should be a café somewhere.”
Axel’s eyes light up. “Yes. I’m starving.”
The café is tucked away behind a small gallery, intimate and warm, with sunlight spilling over the polished floor through the tall windows. Wooden tables and chairs give it a cozy, inviting feel. The scent of freshly baked pastries mingles with the smell of roasted coffee beans and makes my stomach growl. I take a deep breath, letting it all wash over me.
We settle into a small table by the window, and I watch as waiters move gracefully between the tables, balancing trays of croissants and café au lait. Axel leans back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the table, and studies me as I scan the menu.
“What’s catching your eye?” he asks, his eyes on me.
I grin. “Everything. But I think I’ll have a croissant. A chocolate one. And a cappuccino. You?”
He glances at the menu briefly, then back at me. “Black coffee and the largest ham baguette they have. Straightforward. And I might steal a bite of your chocolate croissant when you’re not looking.”
“Oh, you might?” I say, and I lean in, raising an eyebrow. “That’s a risky proposition, Axel.”