Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
I agreed. The anniversary wouldn’t be a walk in the park. Mentally and emotionally, I had moved on fairly well, I thought. But on days like birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays, I was a masochist. That was when I pulled out photo albums and reminisced.
There would be no photo albums for tomorrow, but that didn't mean much. My head was packed with memories, and I was sure I'd assault myself with them.
"You know what?" A memory came to me then, as did a plan. "My folks honeymooned in Paris, and Ma always said she loved the view from that cathedral—" I snapped my fingers, trying to remember the name of it. "Sacré something. Sacré Coeur?"
Julian nodded. "Yes. It'd be a sweet tribute to Nana and Pops if we went."
"All right, it's a plan." I'd even light a candle for them. Ma would've liked that. "I think the view is supposed to be better than from the Eiffel Tower."
"It is." The art major in Julian appeared. I reckoned history mattered to him, too. "Three hundred steps to the top, Mr. Athlete."
I was game.
For the next couple of hours, we talked more about Paris. He spoke animatedly of art and history, and it was impossible not to smile at him. I knew that passion. I felt the same about filmmaking, and he was fortunate to have two subjects that got him going, the other being music. He was gifted and proved it on a daily basis.
Here and there, my thoughts wandered. Perhaps 'cause we'd be balls deep in the city of love. But nevertheless, I couldn’t get that out of my head. What I wanted. What I should've wanted more when I was with Emma. I had loved her deeply. I had given her everything. Or everything I'd had at the time, maybe. 'Cause it felt more now. I couldn’t fucking explain it.
Hard to think it'd been exactly one year since I ended things with her. It wasn't really on my mind, but God knew it would be if it'd been Julian and not her.
And he didn't have a single goddamn clue how I felt, which… Christ, it was fucked up. If I wanted him to be open with me, I had to return the favor. He wasn’t stupid. He had to know I was attracted. But beyond that? How would he know? I'd told him he was sexy, beautiful…whatever. But actions spoke louder than words, and I'd been shit at showing him.
I winced internally, remembering the times I'd come home in the morning, wearing the same clothes as the night before when I'd told him I was going to a bar.
I couldn’t really say I regretted it. I guessed it was one of those mistakes—or several—I had to go through before accepting what I wanted. And it wasn’t any of the women I'd fucked after my first night with Julian.
Even so, he saw it. He knew what I was doing. He saw me as more straight than…anything else. Goddamn labels. But I didn't blame him. I just had to change it. I had to show him what had changed, rather.
Then, it would be up to him.
*
"Noah, it's time to wake up."
Fuck no. "Another hour." I rolled over and buried my head in the überfluffy hotel pillow. "How'dju even get into my room?"
"You mean suite." He snorted, and I felt the bed dip as he sat down. "As your devoted PA, I have a spare key. I guess you already forgot."
Guess so.
"What time is it?" I grumbled sleepily.
"Three. I ordered car service, hope you don't mind."
"Sounds good." I let out a yawn and stretched a bit. "As my slave, could you be a good boy and gimme a back rub?"
"Would you say that to a regular PA?" he retorted.
Touché. I wouldn’t have.
"It would explain why Michael shoved his tongue down your throat," he muttered.
That made me laugh. "There was no tongue action, kid." He was cute when he was jealous. Unlike me. I was just a dick. "All right, give me ten minutes, then I'll meet you downstairs. I need to shower off the jet lag."
*
We arrived in Montmartre an hour later, and we were dropped off at the bottom of the hill with Sacré Coeur in front of us. The large church was located at the highest point in Paris, and I didn't doubt Julian when he told me it was four hundred steps from here. Ninety to get to the top of the hill, then three hundred inside the church to reach the lookout in the main dome.
"I wonder how many stories it would be," I mused as we started heading up. There were tourists and vendors everywhere, and for every landing we reached, there was someone trying to sell us crappy plastic souvenirs.
"Well…" Julian squinted toward the top. "If my math is correct, it should be around…twenty-eight stories? From here to the top, I mean."