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“You're making fun of me,” I observe.
“What? Who me?” she laughs. She sways closer to me, close enough that I can scoop her into my arms, and I know this was her plan all along. She likes to play a little bit of hard to get, but it's the getting part that she really enjoys. “But first, can we go back to Paris?”
This surprises me. “Paris? Why?”
"Well, by my count… We still have at least two flats in our names. We should start thinking about… consolidating?”
I raise my eyebrows. This is very good news. In her own way, she's acknowledging our lives have begun to overlap.
“I think a trip to Paris would be lovely,” I murmur, but I'm utterly distracted by the curve of her neck.
“I want to see the Louvre again,” she moans, gasping when I roll her nipple between my thumb and forefinger. Her lips open in a welcoming smile.
“I want you to see whatever you want to see,” I answer sincerely.
23
Jordan
Paris seems different now. I went back to my natural hair color, and I find myself greeting every stranger with some kind of challenge. I expect them to recognize me, and I expect to have the opportunity to stare them down defiantly when they do.
But somehow, the number of people who have that gleam of recognition in their face has dwindled to so few that sometimes I even forget to look for them.
I've been scrubbed from Pinterest. Our lawyers sent DMCA and cease-and-desist letters to thousands of publishers to remove both the streams and my image from screen captures. Some wicked part of me is delirious to know just how popular I became. My picture was everywhere, doing all kinds of things. There was fan fiction. There was fan art all over DeviantArt. There was even an Etsy seller who specialized in bras and panties in the styles
I wore. Honestly. Some people.
But because of the Internet's notoriously ADHD personality, they've moved on to a whole new basket of scandals and sideshow attractions. I am quickly fading into “Where is she now?” status. It's a relief, believe me.
But that means Paris is different. Instead of wondering who's going to spot me out next, I really only have to worry that they're going to miscount my change, insult me to my face, or that I'll wander into some weirdo masturbating in public. Just normal Paris stuff.
I guess we didn't have to really come here to dispatch our properties, but I wanted to do it anyway. We have people to do that, as R likes to say so frequently. I could have hired an un-designer to dismantle my flat, sell off my stuff or put it in storage, or give it away. But I wanted to do it. Putting it all together had meant a lot to me.
And surprisingly, R did the same thing. I truly didn’t expect him to, since he had picked the flat out and all its furnishings. But he said that if we wanted to have a place in Paris, he wanted it to be some place we picked out together, as well as all the stuff inside it.
It makes me happy me to know that he really has listened to me. I’m glad he sees me as an individual. He respects my decisions and doesn't just tell me what to do and when to do it anymore.
We are partners, just like he said.
But I did find a truly adorable flat in Saint Germain-des-Prés in the 6th Arrondissement. It's unbelievably expensive, of course, but we have just the best neighbors. Just the best view. Just the best of everything. It's only going to be available for a short time, and I hope he likes the idea. No matter what we do in the States, I want us always to be able to return here. Even though it stinks to high heaven a lot of the time, there’s nothing more romantic than Paris.
So it's one last business fête at the Louvre before we return to New York tomorrow, and then Los Angeles after that. I got a business to start, and I can't wait.
All heads turn toward me as I exit the limo and step onto the curb. For a moment I have that feeling of being pushed back, as though everyone looking at me has a physical force like a wave.
But they’re smiling. I feel that I should know them, so I smile back. I see a lot of the same faces from last time, faces from dinner parties we’ve had. I do not see Monsieur Maillot, and that is just great.
R turns to me just as I'm walking up to him. He steps away from the small group of fashionably-dressed business people and holds his hands out to me, cupping my elbows in his palms and drawing me up for a long, slow, probably extremely inappropriate kiss.
“What was that?" I say when he finally pulls away, slightly breathless at the attention.
“Just saying hello,” he murmurs in that rumbly, sexy voice that makes my panties damp. He presses a brief, tender kiss to my forehead.
As per protocol, we walk around the outside of the group, letting people look at us. Everyone has to see everyone, almost like a much fancier way of having a roll call. But a lot of businesses are like that: being in places where other people are. Making connections, being seen.
He draws me away from the group and into the Louvre, and slowly we meander toward a beautiful landscape, wide and serene.
“You know what that is?”
