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“Who do you think I called when you got ready?”
Her brows furrow adorably. “Wait. What?”
“You’ll see.”
“It’s gorgeous here at night. It’s practically built for romantic strolls.”
The Louvre at night is a sight to behold. The famous glass pyramid entrance is lit from within, bright against the dark backdrop of the night sky. Regardless of the time of day, tourists mill around outside taking photographs and posing, but no matter how crowded, nothing detracts from the peaceful calm of the imposing landmark.
“It’s spectacular,” she whispers, shaking her head. Nearby, bright lights flicker in the back of the pastry shop as we walk hand in hand to the back entrance of the store.
“It isn’t open?” she says curiously.
“No, they closed four hours ago.”
When the back door opens, we’re greeted with a warm gust of air that smells divine. “If I could bathe in that air, I’d die a happy woman.”
“Monsieur Gerard!” A rosy-cheeked baker greets us with wide-open arms. “And mademoiselle, are these for you?” Reaching behind him, he pulls out a box of still-warm palmiers.
Cosette groans and reaches with two hands pinching at the air. “If my grabby hands are any indication, I think you have your answer.Thank youuuuu.”
I discreetly tuck a wad of bills into his hand. “Thankyou.”
“Monsieur,” he says in a low voice. “This is too much. I can’t—”
“I am confident I’ll be calling you again,” I mutter as Cosette tears into a palmier, flakes of pastry littering the ground. She moans in a way that sounds so sexual I need to get her the fuck out of here.
We amble down the street, bathed in moonlight, the twinkling lights of the Louvre our backdrop. It’s stunning and majestic and a little cold, I realize, when she shivers and rubs her free hand on her arm.
“These are even more delicious than I imagined,” she moans.
I shrug out of my jacket and drape it over her shoulders. “Glad you like them and the baby’s happy now. Should’ve gotten you a sweater, too.”
“I was hot at the time,” she says, pulling the jacket around her more tightly. As she looks out over the Louvre, she whispers her thanks. “Thank you, Lyam.”
I don’t ask her for what.
“Oh, look,” she says with that earnest wistfulness I almost forget about. It’s one of the things I like best about Cosette, how excited she gets over the simplest things.
I look to where she points but don’t see anything. “What are we looking at?”
“The moon over the water. Look, it casts a shadow that looksexactlylike a dragon.”
We pause by the Seine and I squint my eyes, trying to see what she does. “Are you just giving me shit?”
I love the sound of her giggle. “No. Not this time, anyway.”
I give her a playful smack on her ass.
“You can’t do that, Lyam,” she says in a heated whisper.
“Do what?”
“Smack my butt.”
The hell I can’t. “Why not?”
“I’mpregnant.”
