But instead, we continue walking along the wide, carpeted hallway, surrounded by Parisian hipsters, including a man wearing jeans so tight they look like leggings and a woman with a red-checked blanket draped over her shoulders.
“Why does everyone wear blankets these days?” I ask.
“Why aren’t scarves good enough?”
“Blankets should be for beds.”
“But, to play devil’s advocate, you’d look really fucking good in bed with nothing but a blanket on.”
I shake my head in amusement. This man is brimming with sexual innuendo, and it’s ridiculously appealing.
I stop in my tracks at a huge black-and-white photo with the word #space on it. I step closer, peering at it. “Is that the moon?”
“I think it is. And holy crap, they’re listing it for two thousand euros. That’s bollocks.”
“It’s not as if this person actually went to the moon and took the picture himself.”
“They probably went into the national archives, grabbed a photo of the moon landing, and blew it up in a copy shop.”
“I’m in the wrong business, if you can take a photocopy and sell it for that amount. I should get out of advertising and into the hoodwinkery trade.”
He laughs. “I’ll be right there with you. We’ll capture cell phone shots of the photos of the great events in world history, blow them up, add a hashtag, and sell them at the art and design center.”
“We’ll be in the business of highway robbery.” I turn around to find a humongous chair made out of wicker. It looks like a thatched throne, and the back of it is literally ten feet tall, with a seat covered in a patchwork quilt of pillows. “Speaking of highway robbery.”
“Ah, I’ve been hunting for a comfy new chair.” Christian parks himself in it and pats an emerald-green pillow next to him. “Come try it out.”
That means I’ll be wedged against him.
There’s no other answer but yes, please.
I drop down next to him in the seat, and he slides an arm across my lower back, wrapping his hand possessively around my waist. “You fit nicely next to me,” he says softly, his eyes roaming over my face.
A burst of desire shimmies down my body. “You’re constantly trying to get close to me.”
He leans in, running his nose along my neck. I stifle a whimper as he sniffs, saying, “You’re right. I am. I find you fascinating and irresistible. Maybe you could stop resisting me.”
A smile spreads rapidly, and I lean a little closer, want a little more. “I’ll see what I can do about that,” I tease, but I’m not giving in easily.
“Good. You do that.”
Before I risk draping a leg over his, wrapping an arm around him, or slamming my lips to his, I pat the hard chair. “What do you think this monstrosity costs?”
He pops up, strides over to the beanpole of a man running the booth, and asks. When he returns to me, he offers a hand, pulling me up from the chair and tugging me nearly flush against him.
In a low, sultry voice, he whispers, “This can be yours for a cool twenty-two-and-a-half-thousand euros.”
He doesn’t blink. He says it as if he would seriously consider it. I crack up, so loud I need to cover my mouth with my hands. In between breaths, I ask, “Does it come with the pillows?”
He shakes his head, a forlorn look in his ice-blue eyes. “Sadly, it does not.”
Raising my chin haughtily, I answer. “Pssh. Then I don’t want it.”
We leave the chair and wander around some more.
“How was your week?” he asks, and the normalcy of the question gives me pause. He asks it with ease, as if we’re used to the simple back and forth of “how was your day” and “what’s for dinner.”
“Busy. I was working on some new pitches for potential business at the ad agency I own.”
He asks more questions about my agency, and I share a few details then inquire about his day.
“Busy too. I had a translation job for a bigwig. That was a lot of fun. And then I helped my brother with a few projects. But mostly I spent a good portion of the week wondering if this beautiful Frenchwoman was going to let me kiss her tonight.”
I smile. “I’m only half French.”
“Which half?” he says, a little impishly.
“Which half of you is British?”
“My cock, of course.”
“My tits are French, then,” I reply. Two can play at that game.
His eyes drift to my chest. “J'aime ce qui est français,” he says, lingering on my breasts, as he tells me he loves French.
“Oh please,” I say, and he refocuses, meeting my eyes. “My parents are French, but I was born in America and raised in Manhattan. I have dual citizenship.”
“Do you feel more French or American?”
