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The furrow in his brow and the intensity in his eyes tell me he’s debating something. Then he’s decided. “I’d love to show you the Luxembourg Gardens.”
This man can read my soul. “I want to go there,” I whisper.
“I know, Jules,” he says in a throaty voice. “I know.”
21
A KISS MEMORY
Jules
The lush green gardens overwhelm me as soon as we step through the gate. It’s a pinwheel of nature’s colors. Rich yellows, glorious oranges, ruby reds. The scent of flowers—maybe poppies, possibly petunias—wafts through the air.
This is my favorite thing, flowers and gardens, and itshouldbe a wonderland here, with its paths and ponds and curves.
But right now, the tourist attraction outside the Latin Quarter is stuffed, sardine-like, with people. It’s clattering with the noise of couples sprawled out on blankets on the lawn, eating cheese and drinking wine while playing music from their phones. Children shriek and chase balloons while tired parents tug on dirty hands. Tourists trudge by with phones, snapping photos and buying souvenirs from carts.
It’s thoroughly lovely but completely overrun.
I’m a jerk for thinking this, so I don’t say it. “Gorgeous,” I say, squinting like I can block out everyone else and keep these gardens all for me. Maybe that makes me terribly selfish.
“Yes, but it’d be better if the gardens were closed just for us,” Finn says, a tease of a smirk crooking his lips.
“I was thinking the same thing,” I admit, relieved we’re on the same page. “I wish it were quieter so I could just…enjoy it the way I want to.”
“And what way is that?”
“Sniffing all the flowers. Then pretending it’s my own private garden,” I say.
“That’s fair. And honestly, a damn good fantasy,” he says.
“It feels selfish, but I was picturing it that way,” I say as we weave through the midday crowds, passing a couple of boys operating remote-control sailboats in a pond.
“It’s funny—I think there’s this idea of certain places being perfect. Fantasy places. Paris, Rome, London, Tokyo, the Greek isles. Then you go to them and sometimes it can be disappointing.”
“Are you disappointed?” I ask. I don’t want him to be bored. Even if we both wished for a little more solitude, I still don’t want him to wish he were someplace else.
“No. Not at all. And never with the company.”
He takes a beat, those eyes journeying up and down my body then lingering on my face. “It’s just…a place can be that way, don’t you think?”
“A thing can be that way,” I agree, soaking in the too-busy atmosphere as we wander deeper into the gardens. “You hype it up in your mind. But I’m glad I’m here. Just because something isn’t perfect doesn’t mean I don’t want to see it.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re here too.”
I try not to read anything more into that comment, but I do let myself enjoy its possibilities.
As we walk along a path beside a huge expanse of lawn, Finn moves closer, the faint remnants of his cologne teasing my nose.
“What’s yours? Your cologne, I mean.” He was so insistent to know mine, and his fire and orchids fill my mind.
“Midnight Dreams,” he replies without skipping a beat.
“Mmm. Now I’ll be sniffing it at department stores and thinking of you when I drift off to sleep.”
“That’s too alluring an image, Jules.”
“It sure is.”
