Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 139(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 139(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
Chapter
Eleven
FINN
I’ve had to fake a lot of things in my life, but nothing has been harder than trying to pretend that I don’t want this woman. As she sits across from me, pushing the food around with her fork, my instincts are to scoop her up, carry her into the bedroom, and do things to her body until she weeps with joy.
I try to kill those thoughts because even though she can’t read my mind, I’m giving off some energy that she doesn’t like. Why that matters, I don’t want to examine.
“What are your plans for the day?”
She sets her fork by the uneaten plate of food. “I thought about walking around the Champs-Élysées and the Tuileries. The trees are about to bloom. Maybe I’ll have some churros and hot chocolate from one of the vendors.”
Neither of us look at the basket of croissants and pot of hot chocolate sitting in the middle of the table. I wipe my mouth with the napkin and get to my feet. “Let’s go then.”
“Right now?”
I glance toward the thin and tall French doors that open onto a small balcony. “The sun is out. The weather app says it’s about fifty degrees. If you wear pants and a jacket, we should be comfortable.”
“I wasn’t thinking about the weather but…are you sure you want to hang out with me? I mean, you said I wasn’t your type.”
“I’m not going to do anything in public,” I growl.
She flushes. “Of course not. I wasn’t even thinking you would. I’ll go and change.” She scurries into the bedroom and slams the door behind her.
I walk slowly over to the doors and stare out toward the Seine. What am I doing with her? Why am I trying to force her to spend time with me? Do I think I can make her fall for me if I ply her with churros and chocolate? I’m in Paris to kill someone, not to holiday.
The bedroom door opening interrupts my thoughts. Georgia appears in a long denim skirt, navy blue sweater with the sleeves pushed up, and a beige and black plaid coat draped over one arm. “I’m ready.” She lifts up a foot to display a pair of dark blue boots. “I’ve even got on my practical footwear.”
“Are we climbing a mountain today?”
“You never know.” She smiles, and it seems genuine as if whatever had upset her this morning has passed. Maybe she just really loves hot chocolate and churros. I’ll have to make sure she gets them every day.
I pocket my phone, the hotel key, and shrug on my own windbreaker before leading her out. The Tuileries Garden is just a short walk away from the hotel. The city is just waking up. Signboards are being put onto the sidewalk outside of cafés. Awnings are being brushed and windows cleaned.
The blue city buses rumble past people walking their small dogs. Next to me, Georgia has her face up like a flower worshipping the sun.
I want to eat her up in one gulp, swallow her, and just keep her taste in my mouth 24/7.
“You have that look on your face,” she says without even turning in my direction.
“What look?”
“The mad one.”
“You’re staring at the sun.”
“I can tell. It’s like waves of heat pulsing in the air.”
Oh, baby, that’s not anger. That’s lust.
“I’m not mad. Never been further from that state.”
“If you say so.” She makes a humming noise at the back of her throat that’s so sexy I want to throw her on the pavement and fuck her in the middle of the Paris street.
She inhales. “I smell it.” A smile breaks across her face. “Churros.”
I guess the sexy noise was because of fried dough and not me. I follow her as she skips down the steps onto the broad boulevard leading toward the gardens. On either corner of the sidewalk, vendors in big trucks sell churros, waffles, hot chocolate, and vin chaud.
“Do you want any?” she asks as she scans the short menu board. The churros are sold by the half dozen.
“Yes. Get two orders.”
“So, twelve?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Ambitious, are we?” She steps forward and places the order. We wait as the vendor drops tubes of dough into vats of boiling oil. In no time, we’ve got a bag full of freshly fried churros and small cups of chocolate.
“Tell me about your grandma.”
“What do you want to know?”
Everything. “Did she travel a lot? You said that you got into traveling because of her.”
“No, her family wouldn’t let her, but we put together this huge map of the world puzzle, and when it was finished, she marked all the places in the world she loved. She hadn’t visited many of them, but she’d read about them. When she died, she left me some money, and I knew she wanted me to use it for this.” Georgia spreads out her hands to gesture at the giant reflecting pool, the alley of trees, the carefully manicured boxwoods. If this is a cover, it’s an extraordinary one, but I’m starting to think it’s not all a cover. The best lies are ones mixed with truths, and Georgia's story of her past, of her grandmother, all seem too real to be a made-up story.