But even as she lifts another forkful, her eyes drift again, drawn like a magnet to the glittering skyline beyond the glass.
“It’s a lot to take in,” I say, watching her with a grin.
She swallows, dabs her lip with the corner of her napkin. “I don’t want to miss a single second of it. The light, the rooftops, the sound of the city—I want to eat it all.”
It’s past midnight when we’re wandering on foot through the cobbled streets of Montmartre, the shops closed, the streets hushed.
We turn a corner and there it is—one of the old carousels still turning, just for us.
“Are you kidding me?” she breathes, half-laughing. “It’s actually running?”
“I may have… made a call.”
She stares up at the glowing horses. “Do grown women still ride carousels?”
I take her hand and lead her up the steps. “Only under just the right circumstances..”
The music starts. We ride. She laughs—deep, unabashed joy—and I memorize the sound.
By 1:15 a.m., a private boat waits at the base of Pont Neuf. Champagne already chilled.
The captain welcomes us, and we glide along the water, Paris twinkling on both sides.
She’s tucked against my side, heels off, one hand in mine.
We pass Notre Dame, lit like a cathedral from a dream, its Gothic spires gilded by moonlight.
She turns toward me, a quiet smile tugging at her lips.
“I used to rereadA Moveable Feastin college,” she says. “I’d sit in the campus café pretending I was here, drinking espresso, writing something that mattered. I wanted to be that girl. The one who carried worn paperbacks in her coat pocket and quoted Rilke without sounding pretentious.”
She laughs softly. “I never thought I’d actually get here.”
I watch her, the way the lights from the river ripple across her face, and I swear, if I live to be a hundred, I’ll never forget this image.
“I think you’re still that girl,” I say. “The one with the paperbacks in her coat pocket.”
She looks over at me, skeptical.
“Maybe not openly quoting Rilke,” I add, “but I’ve seen you whisper lines from something under your breath when you think no one’s listening.”
She laughs, “I have been known to talk to myself.”
She falls quiet, her fingers tightening around mine. The boat slides under a bridge, the soft golden glow overhead painting patterns on the deck around us.
“I used to think romance was for other people,” she says after a long moment.
And that’s when I have to kiss her before I say, “Well, you were wrong about that.”
Around 2:30 a.m., we arrive at the hotel, an unassuming building from the outside. But inside, it’s a penthouse suite with 180-degree views, rose petals scattered across the bed, and floor-to-ceiling windows opening to the glowing skyline.
Rhea steps inside and stares. Then she turns to me, eyes glassy. “I don’t even know what to say.”
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Just take it in.”
She reaches for me, slow and sweet, and I pull her close for a kiss.
Then she slips off her shoes and sinks onto the bed, still smiling.
