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“Oui, monsieur.”
After she leaves, he glances toward me, his arms folded on the table.
“What did you just order?” I ask curiously.
“You’ll see.”
About fifteen minutes later, Ilsa brings an entire contraption to our table, and I almost can’t believe my eyes. It’s half a wheel of cheese tilted over an open flame, so it melts slowly over an assortment of cooked potatoes, bread, and sliced sausage.
“Oh, I definitely died, and this is heaven,” I say, as soon as the first bite of warm gooey cheese hits my tongue. Ronan watches with a pleased expression as I savor each delectable bite.
“You like it?” he asks after a sip of champagne.
My mouth is full as I hold back a giggle, covering my face with a napkin. “I’m so happy right now,” I reply, and when he grins back at me, it becomes even more true.
It’s not about the luxury or the age difference or anything other than how incredibly good I feel around him. Someone else’s happiness has never mattered so much to me in my entire life.
And it’s very clear by the lavish meals and what happened last night that Ronan really does find pleasure in spoiling me. Just the way he’s contentedly watching me proves that.
But I can’t help but wonder—who spoils him?
“I’m going to write a song about this cheese,” I say with a mouthful, and he laughs.
“I’m glad you like it, and I look forward to hearing that song.”
As he refills my champagne, he shoots me a wink before handing it to me.
“Eat up, baby girl,” he murmurs.
“Yes, Daddy,” I reply sarcastically.
* * *
I’m still feeling a little tipsy from the bubbly we had with lunch as we take another walk around the city. Ronan’s apartment is near the same part of town as an old bookstore that we spend over an hour in. It’s like a dream, stacks of dusty old paperbacks in every little nook and cranny. I pick up a French songbook as a souvenir, and he finds an old edition ofEmily Dickinson poetry. When he tries to pay, I nearly tackle him away from the register. It’s not much, just a couple books, but it means something that I can at least get him this.
When we’re done at the bookstore, we continue our stroll. My fingers itch to touch him, so when our hands brush, I take the opportunity to link them together, which he doesn’t seem to mind. His large hand is soft, and I nearly melt when his thumb strokes the back of my hand.
From time to time, the people passing us stare for a moment too long, but I actually sort of love it. I’m sure they’re thinking that I’m much too young for him, but I don’t care. I feel like his, and I want them all to know it.
As we reach a promenade near the Louvre, I hear a piano playing in the distance, and I don’t even realize I’m walking toward it until we’re watching a young man play a purple upright piano covered in graffiti. A small crowd is gathered around him as he does his best to get through a simple classical piece.
I can’t help the smile that pulls at my lips as I watch. His fingers stumble on certain chords and transitions, but it’s clear he was classically trained.
When the song ends, the crowd cheers, and he stands from the bench and walks away with a small group that I assume is his family.
The piano sits on the cobblestones in silence as the mass of spectators disperse.
“Go ahead,” Ronan says with a nudge.
“No,” I snap, shaking my head and staring at him in shock.
“It’s for everyone to play, so play it.”
“I don’t…like to perform for others,” I say, pushing back against him.
“Then, perform for me.”
I lift my eyes to his face and we share an intimate look. Then, he curls a strand of hair behind my ear. “Go, Daisy.”
