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He doesn’t hold my hand or touch me, but his voice feels like sensual fingers caressing my neck when he says, “I bet we can find a place here that lives up to your dreams.”
And I do read into that comment. Or, really, my body does, since I get this buzzy, lovely feeling when I’m with him. “All right, you’re on. Find a place,” I dare him.
He tilts his head, an appreciative grin on his lips. “You doubt me?”
“Maybe I do,” I say playfully. I think he likes the challenge.
“Jules, you know that only makes me want to prove you wrong.”
“Fine. Go. Prove me wrong.”
“All right let’s try the Medici Fountain,” he says, like he just had that suggestion in his back pocket.
I nudge him with my elbow. “You tricked me. You told me you didn’t know the city that well.”
“Hmm. Did I say that? Or did I simply say I’d only been here for work?”
“Fine, you caught me on a technicality.”
“In any case, I have only been here for work, but I read all about Paris on the flight and over the last few days. I wanted to be prepared,” he says.
And damn, that’s fire. That sort of preparation. “Just for the show?”
“Yes. I want to be able to speak knowledgeably about the city with my marketing partners who work here. And that means knowing Paris.”
Why do smart men have to be so sexy? Oh right, because using your brain is hot. I don’t really need more reasons to be attracted to this man I can’t have, and yet, Finn Adams has given me another one.
“So you’re traveling in first class, enjoying a glass of wine or bourbon, and just reading up on Paris on the flight, looking all classy in your tailored slacks and a dress shirt.”
“You’ve got this complete image of what I wore on the plane,” he says, clearly amused.
“Tailored business clothes are hot. What can I say? Don’t ruin it and tell me that you wore sweatpants or a track suit.”
He laughs lightly. “I didn’t wear sweatpants or a track suit on the plane.”
“Is that because you’re an executive? It’s probably forbidden, right?” I adopt a schoolmarm voice. “No executive shall wear casual clothes on a plane. You must maintain the image of an executive anytime you fly.”
“Yes, I wore a dress shirt and tailored slacks,” he says, glancing down at his jeans and polo, which is just the right amount of snug, showing off his strong arms. “This afternoon, I went casual since I didn’t have any meetings,” he says, but his voice is a little distant, almost coolly professional for a moment, and I’m not sure why.
Before I can think more on it, we round the bend past some tall hedges into a quieter section of the park. We’ve stumbled into a small garden that feels almost secret, tucked away. Just beyond the immaculately trimmed rose bushes I can hear the faint gurgling of water. I follow Finn around them till we reach a large fountain with water cascading into an emerald pool below us, like a grotto with an iron railing around it. At the base of the fountain are two carved lovers, twined together.
“The Medici Fountain. For now, we’re the only ones here. Soon we won’t be. But I wanted to show you,” he says, and I love that he planned this for me.
“It’s so different than the rest of the gardens,” I whisper. Trees canopy the fountain, giving us shade that makes the spot feel more intimate. This is not on the list Camden and I made. I’ll add it myself, though, because it belongs there.
It’s as if we’ve left the city and found the country, all alone in these secluded gardens. A sweet floral scent lingers in the air, making me feel like I’m caught in a hazy dream as the afternoon sun shines down on the pool, casting a golden glow. At last, this is the Paris in my mind. “I think even the sun wears rose-colored glasses in this garden,” I say.
Finn smiles, clearly satisfied. He should be. “Did I understand the assignment, or what?”
“You did.” I drink it all in, wanting to remember every detail—like the flower pots next to the statue. I point to them. “That’s sort of quaint. Flower pots in the midst of this,” I say as I head to them then sniff. “Pansies.”
Joining me, he leans in and inhales. “You and your scents,” he says then tilts his head. “What’s it all about, Jules, your love of scents?”
This man pays attention. He listens, but he sees too. He notices me. “They make me happy.” That simple admission is a strangely vulnerable one. But he deserves it. He’s earned it. He took me here.
“Why?”
“Do I need a reason?” I toss back, but he waits patiently for me to give some kind of an answer. “I’ve always been drawn to scents. Maybe I just have a good nose. But there’s just something about perfume and flowers and gardens that does it for me. I wish I could explain it better. But they speak to me. I close my eyes, inhale, and I feel…transported.”
