“Good. I wasn’t sure they would have it, but I’m glad they did.”
Reluctantly, I released him. “Are the letters in French?”
“Well, originally they were in Latin, but they’ve been translated. This is an English bookstore.” He gestured behind me.
“Oh, Lucas, I love it. I can’t wait to read them.” My eyes were a little misty, and I struggled to swallow. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I hope you’re not mad—they’re romantic and all.”
I slapped his stomach with the book before dropping it into my bag. “I’m over being mad. I’m all about the romance of Paris now.”
“Good to know.” He took the brown paper bag from me, wadded it up, and tossed it in a nearby trash container. “In that case, how would you like to see my favorite romantic place in the entire city?”
I flashed him a coy smile. “Is it your apartment?”
He laughed. “No. But it’s not far.”
“Good. Because I might need a little rest after all this excitement.”
“Well,” he said, putting his arm around my shoulder as we walked, “you’re definitely invited back to my apartment later, but I can’t promise you’ll get any rest there.”
I tipped my head onto his arm. “God, I love Paris.”
But what I nearly said was God, I love you.
How crazy was that?
#
On the Metro ride over to the Rodin museum, which was where Lucas was taking me, I asked him if he’d ever had a serious girlfriend.
He looked at me sideways. “Why do you ask?”
I shrugged. “Just curious, I guess. You mentioned this place is your favorite romantic spot in Paris, so I assumed…”
“Oh. Well, yes I had a serious girlfriend for a while, but no, I never took her to the Musée Rodin. She’s in New York.”
A quick stab of jealousy made me press further. “How long were you together?”
“About three years, off and on.”
It surprised me, for some reason. “Wow, that’s a long time.”
“I guess.”
“Why’d you break up?”
“We wanted different things.”
“Ah.” I got the feeling his short answers were an indication he wasn’t that into talking about his ex-girlfriend, and probably I shouldn’t have asked, but I couldn’t resist one last question. “What was her name?”
“Jessica. You want to know her birth date and shoe size too?”
I smacked him on the leg. “Come on. I’m only curious. After all, you know a lot about me and Tucker.”
He grimaced. “Much more than I want to, thank you very much. Now no more talking about the past. It’s right here, right now, remember?”
“Yes.” But I couldn’t help wondering about Jessica, the lucky girl on the receiving end of his generous affections for so long a time. What did she look like? How long ago were they together? Why did they really break up? I wondered if she was still in New York and if he ever saw her. The jealousy returned, gripping me hard for a moment, and I had to take a deep breath and hold it until the ill feeling went away.
Here and now. Here and now. Here and now.
I took a few more deep breaths, and Lucas put his arm around me, draping his hand over my shoulder. His fingers grazed the skin just above the top of my cami, really it was the top part of my breast, and my ni**les immediately responded. I didn’t have to wonder long if Lucas noticed.
He tipped his head to mine buried his face in my hair. “You’re killing me in that little top. I’m not going to be able to walk off this train.”
I smiled. And I sincerely hoped the Rodin museum wasn’t very big. Nothing against nineteenth century art or anything, but I was working on a new list.
Things I Want To Do With Lucas
1) Test my b**w j*b skills (and learn some new ones).
2) Take a shower (see what he looks like wet).
3) Let him do whatever thing he mentioned before that might scare me (whips and chains?)
4) Hear him talk dirty to me (a huge secret turn on)
5) Make him scream my name like I scream his (i.e., loud enough to wake the neighborhood, perhaps the 6th arrondissement, maybe even the whole Latin Quarter)
Not too much to ask, was it?
Chapter 12
The museum wasn’t very big, but that wasn’t why I loved it.
As we wandered through, I could see why Lucas was so enchanted with it. Located in an eighteenth century mansion, each room was a wonder of light and shadow and elegance. The fancy baroque details of the house—the tall arched windows, the parquet floors, the detailed plaster and woodwork on the walls and ceilings, the gilt on the curvy antique furniture—all of it offered the perfect contrast to the raw muscular beauty of Rodin’s human figures.
Admittedly, part of my enjoyment was being there with Lucas, who held my hand and spoke quietly to me about Rodin’s artistic style and why it appealed to him.
“I like the way he didn’t make everything beautiful, you know?” We stood in front of a na**d figure of a woman who appeared to be clutching herself in shame. “And I love the fragments, especially the hands. Look at this one here.”
He took my by the shoulders and turned me around, and I gasped as we approached a huge sculpture in front of a window. It was two hands, the wrists emerging from the block base, palms and fingers arched toward each other but barely touching. Soft light filtering through the panes created delicate shadows on the hands and in the airy space between them, and I wanted to try to capture it in a photograph, although I knew a picture would never do it justice. “They’re so beautiful. Are they praying?”