Page 53 of The Daddy’s Girl

“It’s midnight,” she whispers.

“It’s late,” I reply, although a moment ago, I told her the night was young. That was before I turned into her creepy, overstepping godfather.

Instead, she turns her head toward me. “Late? This is Paris. You said so yourself. The night has only begun.”

Then, with that, she takes my hand and tugs me across the street.

“Come on, old man,” she says with a playful laugh. “You promised to show me your Paris.”

My Paris. She wants to see the city through my eyes, so that’s what I intend to show her. It’s nearly one thirty when we veer down an alley of the Seine. Most of the time, I do the listening as she speaks. As it should be.

She tells me more about the program she’s applying for, and I eat up every word. Her passion fuels me. I could listen to her for hours.

“Where are we going?” she asks after we’ve separated from the other stragglers walking down the riverbank.

“I used to come here as a kid,” I say, holding her hand tight in mine. “I know the owner.”

Coming to a small courtyard behind an old bakery, I reach over the top of the gate and find the hidden latch I used as a teenager to enter. For a brief period, I helped out in the kitchen, showing up after an unruly night spent in the clubs to mix massive vats of flour and water, roll out thin sheets of pastries, or fold croissant dough over and over again.

Amelia lets out a delicate gasp when the latch clicks and the gate opens. As I enter the courtyard behind the bakery, she tugs on my arm.

“You are trespassing!” she whisper-shouts.

I only laugh. “I do not trespass,” I say with a wink. “I am invited everywhere.”

The innocent half smile that stretches across her face is warm with a hint of mischief and excitement. Her eyes dance toward the open courtyard, and she finally relents, letting me tug her inside.

“And you call me trouble,” she says as she glances around like we are about to be arrested or attacked by vicious dogs.

“You learned from the best,” I reply, keeping her soft fingers in my hand.

I shut the gate behind us as Amelia scopes out the space. It’s small, as every free inch of space within Paris is. There’s an old set of rusty iron chairs near the door and a tree outgrowing the ground between buildings, its roots erupting through cracked concrete and sparse grass.

Still, even in its disarray, it’s beautiful.

And the glisten in Amelia’s eyes proves she appreciates that.

She lets out a sigh, dropping into one of the old chairs and staring up at the stars peeking through the leaves. We are surrounded by the Haussmann-style buildings that can only be found here in my city. Cream-colored limestone and warm brick-hued chimneys on slanted roofs.

I glance down at her, watching her breathe it in, and I know that if I had brought any other woman here, she’d scoff, lifting her nose at the lack of luxury found in these little corners of Paris that we locals keep a secret from the tourists.

But this is Amelia. The heiress to a billion-dollar fortune who still takes the Métro and shops in secondhand stores and eats at greasy dives.

She doesn’t let the luxuries of her wealth absorb her personality. She was born with wild will and a free spirit. She longs for life, not comfort.

Pulling out the keys from my pocket, I use the one that’s been on the ring for the last thirty-five years and unlock the back door of the bakery. Amelia doesn’t move from the chair as I rifle through the selection of unsold baked goods left on the counter in old brown bags.

When I return to her a moment later with a selection of the best macarons in Paris, her eyes light up.

“Oh, the rose ones are my favorite.”

Holding out my hand, I watch as she takes the pink one, bringing it to her lips with a soft hum of delight. And the only thing better than watching her enjoy something so unabashedly is knowing that I chose her favorite flavor on the first try.

I take a bite of the pistachio, and it is delicious. But the flavor pales in comparison to watching her enjoy hers.

What is this feeling?

It’s as if the moment I noticed how beautiful and sexy Amelia is, the chemistry of my brain was altered. I have loved her without doubt or hesitation for years, but never like this. I see her so differently now.