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“Not sure,” River said with a pointed gaze: That depends on you. “I can’t stay long. My dad’s sleep-walking through life and my sister’s not going to graduate high school unless I drive her there every morning.”
“And the business?”
“Not bad, actually. I’m keeping it afloat.” He smiled ruefully. “Like a juggling act that never ends.”
I nodded. Just as I suspected, Nancy’s death had blown the Whitmore family to bits and it was left to River to sweep up the pieces and put them back together.
If I’d stayed, I’d only have added to his burden. I still would…
“Come on,” I said, rising from my chair and throwing a twenty Euro note on the table. “You need to see more of Paris than this street corner. I’ll take you on my daily route. This was breakfast.”
“It’s one in the afternoon.”
“Don’t be judge-y. It’s not sexy.”
His frown deepened, and I saw his thoughts drift back to my hotel room and my bed that wasn’t empty. I started walking, distracting him and forcing him to catch up.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“Church.”
I hailed a cab and we took it to the center of Paris, to Île de la Cité, the small island in the Seine river that housed Notre-Dame. We got out of the cab and crossed a footbridge to the plaza in front of the cathedral, then made our way inside.
We stepped in the cool confines, and River took in the arched ceilings, the alcoves of statues, altars, and tables filled with little candles in cups—some burning, some waiting to be lit.
“You come here every day?” River asked quietly.
I nodded. “I’m as shocked as you are that lightning doesn’t strike me as soon as I cross the threshold. But in my experience, God’s always had a twisted sense of humor.”
“Why do you come?”
“I light a candle for your mom. And for Beatriz. For my aunt and uncle. And you, sometimes. When I’m feeling particularly brave that I won’t be struck down for my hypocrisy.”
We went to a table of candles. I dropped a fifty Euro note in the alms box and took one of the wooden sticks. I held it to an already-lit candle and lit a new one. I felt River’s eyes on me, blue and deep and soft.
“What about you?” River asked.
“The candles aren’t for yourself. It’s a kind of prayer for someone else.”
River nodded and held a stick to one flame, passed it to another until it caught, and then blew out the stick. His eyes held mine softly in the darkened cathedral, the hushed voices and footsteps of other visitors fading around us.
A peculiar sensation coursed through me, of being touched by his gesture and wanting him so badly at the same time. That was the problem with River Whitmore—he was eminently fuckable and loveable in equal parts. Instead of keeping the two desires separate, they twined and fused in me, doubling my pathetic desperation.
“Come on,” I said gruffly. “There’s something else I want to show you.”
Before I jam my tongue down your throat in front of the Virgin Mary.
I led River across another footbridge to the other side of the Seine and into the Latin Quarter with its narrow cobblestone walks and medieval churches. We stepped inside Shakespeare & Company, a bookstore that had a small café out front with a view of Notre-Dame.
“Very cool,” River said, strolling the cramped, multi-level store, craning his neck up to the high bookshelves with the same reverence he’d shown at Notre-Dame.
“I thought you’d appreciate it.”
River smiled and we parted ways for a bit, perusing the shelves. I mulled a few titles but mostly watched River from afar as he moved his big body between narrow aisles, his jeans tight around his perfect ass. He was potent virility wrapped in kindness. Masculine perfection with a heart as deep as…
“The Grand Canyon,” I murmured.
I met up with him in a corner of the bookstore where two tall shelves came together, a small table in front. He held a book open, reading intently.
