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The cool breeze cleared the heat from my face, but the alcohol still churned inside.
I walked along the riverside path, my ankle boots tapping lightly on the smooth stones. Marcelo walked on my outer side near the road, his tall frame like an invisible wall shielding me from the cold wind off the river.
A melodious, slightly hoarse instrumental sound drifted across the water.
I stopped, turning toward the sound coming from beneath the Pont Neuf ahead.
A street musician in a black beret sat on a folding chair, cradling a somewhat worn red accordion. His long fingers danced nimbly across the keys, pumping the bellows, producing a distinctly French waltz melody—joyful with a lazy swing.
An open case sat on the ground with a few scattered coins inside. Two young women in trench coats stood nearby, bodies swaying gently to the beat.
"This piece..." I stopped by the stone railing, tilting my head to listen, eyes brightening under the yellow streetlights.
Marcelo stopped, turning to look at me. "You know it?"
"Know it? I performed it." I raised an eyebrow proudly, liquid courage erasing all usual restraint. "Sophomore year, to get enough arts credits, I took a French folk dance elective. This was our final exam piece."
Marcelo's eyes flashed with faint surprise.
He looked me up and down, mouth curving into a playful smile. He stepped back half a pace, hands in his coat pockets, body tilting slightly, tone full of undisguised challenge and teasing. "Is that so? Well then, Ms. Caldwell, talk is cheap. Why don't you give your boss a live demonstration?"
"You think I'm bluffing?" His spectator stance instantly triggered my competitive streak.
"I just think we could get to know each other better." He raised an eyebrow, gray-green eyes glinting with provocation in the darkness.
"Then watch closely, Mr. Moretti." I snorted, yanking my black messenger bag off my shoulder and tossing it straight into Marcelo's arms.
Marcelo caught the bag smoothly, stood his ground, watching me with calm anticipation.
The accordion swung into a fast, upbeat climax.
Fueled by alcohol and night wind, I threw everything aside. In my ankle boots, I started moving, spinning along the three-beat rhythm on the wide stone pavement beside the Seine.
One step, two steps, cross step, then a big sweeping pivot.
The hem of my loose beige trench coat flew open as I spun, like a massive flower blooming wildly in the night. My ponytail whipped violently behind me, stray strands plastering against my burning cheeks.
My footwork was far from professional—I nearly lost my balance and stumbled several times. But the vitality I'd suppressed for so long burst free with the music, unleashed completely into the Paris night.
The accordion player noticed, eyes lighting up, his fingers moving faster and more forcefully across the keys.
French tourists who'd been walking along the bridge stopped, leaning against the iron railing, smiling with genuine warmth. A young mother pushing a stroller even started clapping along with my steps.
"Allez! Magnifique!" the musician shouted, pulling out a flourish of ornate notes.
More people gathered, applause and light whistles echoing under the stone bridge.
I was completely lost in the dizzy spinning, breathing hard, chest heaving violently. The river's shimmer and yellow streetlights swirled in my vision. I felt like a fire burning wild in the cold wind.
After completing another imperfect turn, my eyes caught through flying strands of hair on the man standing three steps away.
Marcelo still stood with hands in pockets, my black bag hanging casually at his side.
He stood quietly at the edge of the lamplight's glow—tall, straight, his deeply handsome profile sharply defined in the play of light and shadow.
But the cold-blooded control of the power player, the businessman's mask—all of it had vanished completely in this moment.
On that sharply carved face, his cheeks lifted slightly, those deep gray-green pupils reflecting my spinning figure without reservation, eyes filled to overflowing with warmth and laughter, shining startlingly bright in the Seine's darkness.
