One Summer in Paris

“Probably the same reason you didn’t tell me about your mum. It’s not the first thing you tell someone, is it? It’s heavy stuff, and we weren’t doing heavy stuff.”

“It doesn’t feel heavy. It feels—” Audrey tried to work it out. How did it feel? “It feels good to be honest with someone, that’s all. To have it all out there. To be able to properly share. It’s a relief.”

She took the glass of water he handed her.

“My mum wanted me to join them this summer, but I couldn’t face it. That’s why I took the job in the bookshop. This was my escape.”

“It was my escape, too. The difference is that I don’t like books.”

He laughed. “We’re going to fix that.”

Her heart sank. “You can’t fix me.”

“I don’t want to fix you. You’re fine just as you are. I want to fix the fact that you think you don’t like books. Why are you eyeing the door?”

“I’m plotting my escape route. That’s what happens when you know someone plans to torture you.”

He leaned in to kiss her neck. “Give me one hour. That’s all. One hour to prove to you that you do like books. Just not necessarily reading them yourself. One hour. Is it a deal?”

“I guess so.”

She would rather have done something else with that hour, but she wasn’t about to argue.

He led her into the bedroom and grabbed a book from the bookshelf that lined one of the walls. “Lie down and close your eyes.”

She slid off her shoes and lay down, watching him. “Now what?”

“You haven’t closed your eyes.”

“I like to see what’s happening.”

“Everything that is going to happen is going to happen in your head. Close your eyes.”

She sighed and squeezed her eyes shut. “Okay. Now what?” She felt the mattress move as he lay down next to her, the rustle of pages and then his voice, deep and velvet smooth as he read to her.

To begin with she found it impossible to relax. It felt totally weird. But then something happened and instead of hearing him reading and feeling self-conscious, she slid into the story and found herself living the action along with the characters. She lost track of time and when he finally stopped reading she opened her eyes, annoyed.

“Why are you stopping? I want to know what happens next.”

“That’s why I’m stopping.” He put the book down and shifted closer. “Am I allowed to say I told you so?”

“No.”

He swooped down and kissed her. “You might not like reading, but you like books and stories.”

“So what? You’re going to read every book ever written aloud to me? That’s going to take a while.”

His mouth hovered close to hers. “Are you in a hurry?”

“No.”

She could have spent the rest of her life lying here listening to him read, but she was desperate for him to kiss her.

She squirmed with anticipation. Her heart was pounding. When he looked into her eyes she saw something different there, and was breathlessly aware that he knew everything there was to know about her. She no longer had anything left to hide.

She’d always thought intimacy was a physical thing, but now she realized it was so much more complicated than that. It was about knowing someone. Really knowing them. Not just their body, but what was inside their head.

He lowered his head and kissed her gently and she kissed him back, tasting, breathing, holding, exploring. He eased off her clothes and she did the same with his. His shoulders were broad and bronzed and she wondered if it was shallow of her to like the way he looked so much.