You deserve this joy.
Chapter 30
Tilly
Yana really came through with the packing.
I swear half of what I brought is the result of her yelling.
So here I am—standing in front of the mirror, adjusting my cream-colored blouse tucked into a flowy, blush-pink skirt.
A thin gold chain rests at my collarbone, and my hair is let loose.
I even tied a small white ribbon into it because, well, Paris.
I don’t usually ever dress up because I wear book merch and sweats most of the time, unless it’s Luca’s hoodie.
I will always choose comfort over style, and that’s an opinion Yana will never agree with.
I step out of the bathroom, fiddling with my sleeve
Luca’s sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone, one leg bent up. His hair is still damp from his shower.
He looks up and blinks.
For a second, he doesn’t say anything. Then his mouth curves into this slow, warm grin that makes my stomach do a whole gymnastics routine.
“You look beautiful,” he says simply, and his voice is low and certain.
I roll my eyes and tease. “You’re so sweet.”
“It would be illegal to walk next to a stunning girl with her not knowing it.”
“You and your third-person kink.”
“What can I say, I love referring to my girlfriend as just that.” He stands up and takes my hand in his. “Ready to visit Parii?” He says it with this absolutely tragic fake French accent.
“Please never do that again,” I laugh.
He pretends to be offended. “Excuse me, mademoiselle, I am very cultured.”
“Cultured in embarrassment, maybe.”
He laughs and kisses my forehead.
***
The café we find looks like something straight out of a postcard.
Little round tables scattered along the sidewalk, chairs woven in green and white, the air smelling like roasted coffee and warm pastries.
A soft breeze carries the sound of French chatter and clinking cups, and the sun shines in the perfect way that doesn’t blind you, but covers you in a warm blanket that makes you want to wear a sundress.
We sit outside, under a little awning with ivy creeping up the sides.
A waiter comes by with a charming smile, setting down two cappuccinos topped with perfect foam hearts, a basket of croissants, and a plate of pain au chocolat that looks like art.
I try to play it cool, but it’s impossible when I feel like all the girls in movies, because for some reason, they always go to Paris at the end of their story.
