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)
His gaze shifts to me slowly. “Like you.”
“And you?” I ask, my voice lighter than my pulse.
“I like precision,” he says. “Control. I like knowing the variables.”
“That sounds very you.”
“It is.” He glances towards the cathedral again. “But I also like disruption. The thing you can’t spreadsheet. The element that doesn’t fit.”
I arch an eyebrow. “You like chaos?”
“Selective chaos.”
“Ah. Curated unpredictability.”
“Exactly… like spending a weekend in Paris with Joseph’s estranged daughter.”
And just like that, the air between us changes. Becomes charged. Like the second before a storm breaks, except there’s nothing violent in it. Just anticipation. Axel’s thighs shift. We are more than just touching now. Neither of us moves away. My brain searches for something to say to break this strange magnetic pull between us.
“What did you want to be when you were a kid?”
“A basketball player.”
I laugh before I can stop myself.
He looks offended. “Hey! I was good.”
“I don’t doubt you were. I just …”
“Just what?”
“I just can’t picture you missing a shot and being okay with it.”
His mouth curves slowly. “I missed plenty.”
The honesty in that remark sits between us quietly with no bravado, no deflection. “That surprises me.”
“Why?”
“You don’t strike me as someone who tolerates failure.”
He looks far into the horizon. “I don’t see my failures as a setback. I see them as another rung in the ladder of success.”
I nudge his knee with mine. “What a great way to look at failure. For what it’s worth, I failed spectacularly at gymnastics.”
He turns to me. “Gymnastics?”
“My mum thought it would build character. I cried every time I had to go on the beam.”
“Why?”
“I don’t like heights.”
He laughs, and I realize I’m starting to chase that sound. To say things just to hear it.
“What did you want to be when you were eight?” he asks softly.
“An archaeologist.”
He seems surprised. “Really?”
“Yes. I wanted to brush dirt off ancient things and discover secrets.”
“You do that now.”
“I guess I do.”
“Tell me something no one knows,” he asks after a moment.
“That’s a dangerous request.”
“So, live dangerously then.”
I study his face. There’s curiosity there, but not interrogation. Not the calculating businessman weighing assets and liabilities. Just him.
“I still sleep with the window slightly open,” I say quietly. “Even in winter.”
“Why?”
“My grandpa used to say fresh air keeps the nightmares away.”
He doesn’t mock it. Doesn’t dismiss it. He nods like that makes perfect sense. “I check the locks twice. Even when I know they’re secure.”
“Why?”
He laughs again. “I hate the thought of giving robbers an easy ride.”
I reach for his hand without deciding to, without thinking about it. Our fingers lace together naturally, like they’ve done it a thousand times before. His thumb brushes slowly over my knuckles.
We sit there, our hands tangled, talking about ridiculous things, like whether croissants are superior to pain au chocolat (they are), whether dogs or cats are more loyal (he says dogs; I say cats are simply more discerning), whether we’d rather live by the sea or in the city (we both say city, but only if there’s water nearby). We agree on more than we don’t. And where we don’t agree, it feels less like friction and more like texture.
At some point, I realize I’ve stopped watching the gardens and turn slightly to face Axel. I watch him. The way his brow furrows when he’s thinking. The way he listens - actually listens - like what I’m saying matters. The way his hand tightens fractionally whenever I laugh, as if anchoring himself there.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks quietly.
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve discovered something.”
I tilt my head. “Maybe I have.”
“And?”
I squeeze his hand once. “I’m not telling you… yet.”
His eyes darken, not with irritation, but with intrigue. “Tease,” he murmurs.
I watch how the sunlight catches his hair and eyes in a way that makes him seem impossibly untouchable. As if he is a god among mere mortals.
The air is thick with the scent of flowers, the faint river breeze, and something else, something electric that hums quietly between us. I realize, almost with a thrill, that this morning, this quiet, ordinary morning, has shifted everything. And all of Paris seems to hold its breath with me.
What will happen next is a secret that only the cool morning light seems to know.
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
JO
The morning air has lost its crisp quality as we walk back toward the Seine. The sun is higher now, glinting off the water in dazzling shards. Boats drift languidly downstream, their wakes sending tiny ripples against the stone embankments.
Axel slows down, tilting his head to one side with that half smile, half thoughtful expression that makes my stomach twist.
He slides his hand into mine. “We’ve wandered bridges and streets … why not see the city from the river?”
I glance over at him, teasing. “Are you suggesting a cruise? Like a Bateaux-Mouches? A tourist boat with a million people?”