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She says it too brightly though. She’d never let on at work that she’s afraid of heights.
“I’d actually love to see the flat for a minute,” I say, stepping in. “Jules, would you show it to me?”
“Of course.”
With Solange quickly busying herself on her phone, we head into the old elevator. As it rises, I’m so close to Jules, I could kiss her neck if I leaned in a few inches. I want to tell her there’s a gift waiting for her at the hotel. Instead, I clench my fists, hold that admission back, and grit out, “How was your second day?”
“Busy. Solange is a whirlwind. But I can keep up with her.”
“Of course you can. Were you up at dawn, sitting at a café?”
A tiny smile shifts her lips. “Yes. I read some of my book by the river.”
Montmartre isn’t near the river. “You must have been up quite early to make it to the Seine before work.”
She shrugs, likeof course. “How many times will I be able to do that?”
Many, if I have a say in it.
We reach the sixth floor and as soon as she opens the door to the flat, I set a hand on her forearm. God, her skin feels incredible. I sizzle from this small touch. “I’ll get the glasses.”
Without waiting for her answer, I stride through the chic flat. A red sofa, an antique armoire, and artwork that looks like it comes from an outdoor market all signal a minimalist-meets-French style that’s perfect for the show’s look. I step out on the balcony, grab the glasses from the ledge, then turn around in the doorway.
But she’s right behind me. “Actually, it’s okay.”
My brow creases. “It is?”
She closes the distance between us then steps onto the balcony and peers over Le Marais. She breathes in, breathes out. I say nothing—just watch her as she checks out the view, even though I don’t think she’s enjoying it.
After a beat, she turns to me. “But thank you,” she says softly.
I don’t entirely understand her fear, but I can tell this is important to her—this act of independence.
“Did it bother you that I wanted to help?”
“No. Not at all. I’m just not used to someone helping,” she says like she wishes it weren’t that way. “Or knowing.”
Oh.
She doesn’t tell people about her fear of heights. “Thanks for letting me, then. Even if I was pushy.”
She takes another big breath then shakes her head. “You weren’t.”
I hand her the glasses, and she heads back inside, then stops in the foyer. I catch up to her, and her gaze strays briefly to the door.
Someone else from the show could come in here any second. A set designer, a costumer, another producer. But right now, we’re the only ones here, and there’s a charge in the air, a palpable energy.
I hold her face with my hand. “Have dinner with me tonight. I need to get to know you more. I need to learn more about you. I want to take you on a date in Paris. Is that on your list?” I ask, taking a beat to let those words land.
To watch her eyes answer with a twinkle.
Then, she says, “Yes.”
* * *
When I walk into the bistro where we’re meeting in Montmartre, I can tell she’s here before I see her. I smell honeysuckle, and it’s the scent of wanting.
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