Forget (12 page)

Fifteen minutes later, we’re in Lindsay’s hotel room. I’m sitting on the bed, and she’s running around the room like a chicken with its head cut off.

“How long are you going to give me the stink eye?” Lindsay asks as she tosses a few essentials in her purse.

“Long enough for you to understand that you shouldn’t butt your nosey ass into my business.”

She tosses a random tube of lipstick at my head. “Oh, get over yourself. I was doing you a favor. You wanted to say yes, I just needed to give you a push in the right direction.”

“A push? More like you shoved me off a skyscraper!”

“If he’s what’s waiting at the bottom of that proverbial skyscraper, then I’d be jumping—willingly if I were you. Hell, I’d be jumping naked, tits out and bouncing all over the place.” She has the audacity to wink in my direction.

I sigh, scrubbing a hand down my face.

She ignores my sighs and strides into the walk-in closet. Yes,
walk-in closet,
fancy fucking digs for sure. My room is a replica of hers, and it’s obvious Millie didn’t spare any expenses when she booked it.

“Darling, he’s a really nice guy who just wants to spend some time with you. No expectations,” she calls from behind the door. “Anyway, I don’t know why you’re second-guessing this. A blind man could have seen the crazy chemistry flowing between you two. And for the record, I’m fully supporting you exploring that chemistry. You’re in Paris. Let your hair down.”

“My hair is down.” I twirl a lock around my finger.

“Oh, don’t get pissy with me. Now isn’t the time to be rational, now is the time to forget about everything and do whatever the hell you want.”

She makes it sound so damn easy. Is it really
that
easy?

“Now, how does this look?” She steps out of the closet looking every bit of the model she is.

I cock an eyebrow. “Where exactly are you going?”

“I’m meeting with this up-and-coming designer who wants me for their big, fall launch.”

“But I thought you canceled everything?”

“Well, I did, but since you got asked out on a date, I decided, why the hell not kill two birds with one stone? You’ll get some much-needed privacy, and I’ll get some work done in the process.”

She walks over to the bed, sitting beside me. “And just to be clear, I’m not judging, I’m not saying a fucking thing about anything. What happens in Paris, stays in Paris. It’s no one’s business what or who you do here. Not Ember’s,
not Jamie’s,
no one’s.” She stands up, kisses my cheek, and says, “Don’t think too much about it, Brooke. Now is not the time to overthink, now is the time to let the fuck go.”

Once Lindsay is out the door, I’m left twiddling my thumbs. I change my outfit ten times, and finally choose comfort over anything else. Paris isn’t a city that you walk around in stilettos all day. I settle on black skinny jeans, my favorite worn in Chucks, and a t-shirt. My lip gloss is applied no less than thirteen times, and if I go one more coat of mascara, I’m going to have clumpy, spider-web lashes. Worst look ever, by the way.

Glancing at the clock, I realize there’s still thirty minutes to spare. Good God, did time stop?

After pacing around the hotel room a few more times, I decide to channel my nervous energy into something that won’t leave holes in the plush carpet of my room. I grab my messenger bag and meander down to the lobby, making my way outside. I find a bench that sits off the beaten path inside the quiet courtyard. I shoot Dylan a quick text letting him know where to find me, slide off my Chucks, plop my ass on the bench, and then lose myself inside the pages of my journal.

Dear Whoever?

Sometimes, I wish I were as carefree and spontaneous as Lindsay.

Want to spend time with your best friend in Paris? Drop everything and do it.

See a guy that catches your eye? Grab him by the balls and make him yours for the night.

You think your best friend needs some alone time with a hot musician? Call that designer that wants your pretty face on their fall clothing launch, and then tell her to do whatever the fuck she wants and that you won’t tell a soul.

Can life really be that simple?

Sometimes I wonder if I’m my own worst enemy, like I’m the one preventing myself from really being
myself
. Most days, I feel like “me.” Most days, I’m comfortable in my own skin, happy with my life, my family, and my friends. But then there are those days that creep up on me, hovering like a black cloud. And it’s those dark days that make me wonder how one person, who’s surrounded by so many great and loving people, could still feel like the loneliest person in the world?

Today isn’t one of those days. It feels like a new beginning. Like someone has washed the darkness out of my soul and is letting me see things differently for once. Maybe it’s because I’m in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, or maybe it’s because I get to spend more time with him.
Dylan.
How can a name I’ve only known for a week feel like a complete thought? A perfect thought?

A shadow covers the pages of my journal. My brow furrows from the disruption. I glance up, meeting my reflection within mirrored aviator shades. They cover eyes that arc across the green spectrum of the color wheel. The first time I saw those eyes, they were bright green and luminescent in their depths. I wonder what they look like today.

“I hope you haven’t been standing there long.”

“Don’t mind me,” Dylan says, motioning towards my journal.

The cap of my pen finds its way to my mouth. My teeth bite down as I take in his grin. I wonder if his eyes have honed in on my lips and darkened a few shades. Last night, after finishing a shot he bought me, their hazy depths became a deep hue as they watched my tongue swipe across my bottom lip.

“Seriously, I’m in no rush,” he adds. “Finish whatever you’re doing. I’ve got all the time in the world.” He sprawls out on the bench, using my messenger bag as a pillow against the armrest. His long legs are still bent, the bench too small to accommodate his large frame.

I turn towards him, still cross-legged and barefoot. “Well, please, make yourself comfortable,” I tease, nodding towards his makeshift pillow.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Soft laughter spills from my mouth.

“Anyway, I quite like sitting here, watching you lose yourself in whatever you’re doing.”

“Exactly how long have you been watching me like a creeper?” I ask, tapping his thigh with my foot.

“Long enough to know I’m a fan of whatever has you looking so peaceful and content.”

My nose crinkles. “You’re weird.”

“You’re gorgeous.” He winks. “And what is that?” He nods towards the pages that are discreetly covered by my hands.

“It’s just a journal.” I shrug. “I got it from someone who was very special to me. She damn near insisted I put it to use.”

His aviators are now resting on top of his head, and I’m thankful I can actually see his eyes. “You keep putting it to good use and wake me up when you’re finished.” A small smile crests his mouth as his eyes fall closed.

I lean forward, snatch his sunglasses and put them on.

Dylan peers out of one eye. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

He chuckles softly and then resumes his napping.

After a few minutes, Dylan hasn’t budged, and the soft rise and fall of his chest proves he’s at least entered the drifting stage of sleep. His sunglasses serve as the perfect cover-up. I’m able to look at him,
really
look at him, without getting caught. I think I could make a hobby out of this.

Once I’ve filled my gawking quota for the day, my pen finds its way back to the paper.

What are the odds that Dylan finds me in the courtyard at the exact moment my pen is writing his name? I should see if Paris sells lottery tickets.

It feels nice having him sit beside me. His thick lashes rest softly on his cheeks. Full lips beckon me, and I wonder if those lips taste as good as they look.

I’m generally a restless person. My mind is constantly busy making endless lists, always trying to figure out the next step. I wish I could be more like Millie in that aspect. She woke up every day with an infectious vigor for life. That’s a purity I will always aspire to have. She just
lived,
always enjoying the little moments in life and forgetting about all of the miniscule details—bills and appointments and work and other bullshit—that tend to clog up our brains.

But last night was different for me.

When I was on stage with Dylan, my head wasn’t busy making lists. When we were sitting at the bar—laughing and talking—I didn’t worry about what would come next or how the night would end.

And right now, I’m only thinking about how peaceful Dylan looks, and how content I feel with him beside me.

Is this what it’s like for a drug addict after they feel that first incredible high?

Hooked. Utterly consumed.

I want more of these moments.

Maybe I won’t fall in love with Paris.

Maybe I won’t fall in love with a man while I’m in Paris.

Maybe I’ll just fall in love with moments like these.

I think that should count for something towards Number 20 on Millie’s bucket list.

More later,

-B

Dylan is lying on the bench, feigning sleep, while I put on the act of trying to wake him up. His face looks peaceful, and his body the picture of relaxation, but I know the bastard is awake. My soft nudges turn progressively rougher. I lean down, whispering into his ear, “It’s a shame you’re so tired. I was really excited about being shown a good time.”

No response.

“Well, I guess I’ll leave you to it.” I start to get up, but a yelp escapes my lungs when strong hands grip my waist. He pulls me back towards the bench. In a matter of seconds, I’m lying on top of him, our bodies flush against each other.

“Don’t even think about it, love.” His eyes smile up at me.

I know he’s just being playful, but I’ve never felt so turned on in my life.

He
is beneath
me.

He slides the aviators off my face and searches my gaze for a beat. “I always keep my promises,” he says. His voice drops a few octaves—deeper, and slightly rougher around the edges. It’s sexy as hell. I imagine it’s the kind of voice he uses when he’s engaged in extracurricular activities—the naked kind, that is.

If I sit up, I would be straddling his hips. If I lean forward, I could easily crush my lips to his. My heart rate has tripled, and my breaths are coming out in tiny pants. If Dylan asks me to kiss him, straddle him, or fuck him on the bench . . . I’m pretty sure I will.

I take a deep breath, trying to regain control, but my chest rubbing against his is more suggestive than anything else. Dylan closes his eyes. The grip on my waist grows tighter. I can’t find the mental capacity to figure out the meaning behind his reaction. I’m too busy thinking about the warmth of his skin, and how strong and muscular his body feels beneath mine.

And dear God, the way he smells is beyond intoxicating. Soft yet tough, it reminds me of warm vanilla contrasted with amber musk. It’s masculinity meets sensuality, soft as cashmere yet tough in a woodsy kind of way. If it’s cologne that’s making him smell this good, then the bottle should come with a warning label spelled out t-r-o-u-b-1 -e. I have the urge to bury my face in his neck and inhale until I pass out or hyperventilate.

I’m startled out of my daydreams when Dylan sits up, taking me with him. “All right, since I promised you a good time today, we better get moving.”

He helps me to my feet. Within seconds, my body misses his touch. I need a fan, or at the very least, a cool, wash cloth.
Holy hell.
What was that? And was I the only one affected by it?

Instead of analyzing, I keep my eyes on my messenger bag and start packing up my things. My pace is that of a ninety-year-old, but I’d say given the situation, it’s understandable. Lord knows my body needs the extra time to cool the fuck down.

WE START OUR JOURNEY
towards the 5th Arrondissement. According to Dylan, the Latin Quarter is the best neighborhood to dig for vinyl. The minute we sit on the métro, he grabs my hand, placing it, palm up, on his knee. He glances at me, a soft smile etched on his face.

His fingers brush against my palm, tracing the remnants of black ink. It’s such a simple display of affection, yet it steals all of my focus. I feel every innocent touch down to my toes.

Time flies when I’m in his presence, and before I know it, we’re shuffling off the métro.

“Hungry?” Dylan asks, placing his hand on my lower back. He leads me across the street and through the hurried traffic.

“Sure, but do you mind if it’s somewhere outside?” I ask, my eyes fixating on the busy streets of The Latin Quarter. The neighborhood is this odd yet seamless mix of academic dialogue, old world architecture, and hip demeanor.

He stops in the middle of the crooked sidewalk, turning to face me, hands gripping my shoulders. “Sounds great, but you have to make one very important choice first.”