Sweet Dandelion

I startle when I feel the gentle press of Ansel’s warm hand against my cheek. “You don’t need me to hold you together. You’re doing that all on your own. But I’ll keep you safe.”

I open my eyes, staring into his light blue gaze. “I don’t think I’m doing a very good job.”

“Trust me, Meadows, you’ve never given yourself enough credit.”

Taking my hand, he urges me back to the bed, and lays down beside me. It’s not that late, but we’re both tired from the day’s adventures. As soon as his arms wrap around me I fall right into a peaceful sleep.

Chapter Seventy

We spend two weeks exploring London and the surrounding cities before moving on.

I send more texts to Lachlan. He never responds.

From there we travel to Italy, visiting Venice, Rome, Florence—but spending most of our time on the Amalfi Coast. It’s eight weeks before we can bring ourselves to leave.

Still, Lachlan doesn’t reply.

Other cities we stop at are Prague in the Czech Repub

lic, Barcelona and Madrid in Spain.

I should stop texting.

Ansel wanted to go to Scotland when we first left London, but Scotland belongs to Lachlan.

I don’t know why I can’t betray him.

The plane circles over our next destination. Ansel looks out the window with awe and joy. “Look at it, Meadows.” He points like a small child for me to look too.

“Wow.”

We hover above Paris, exchanging smiles.

The plane starts its descent, the pilot giving instructions over the speaker.

Ansel grabs my hand, looping our fingers together. With a smile he says, “Paris isn’t ready for us.”

I smile back. I’m not sure I’m ready for it either.

Goodbye, Lachlan. I’m moving on with my life.

Chapter Seventy-One

The taxi screeches to a stop in front of the apartment.

Ansel speaks to him in French, passing him some crumpled up euros.

We grab our bags, heading inside to the manager’s office to get the keys for the apartment we pre-booked on a month-to-month basis. Both of us agreed we’d like to stay in Paris for a while. I’m not sure how long a while actually is, but we’ve already been gone from home six months. I know Sage hoped I’d be home for Christmas, but this year I’ll be celebrating in the city with Ansel.

We take the antique elevator up to the top floor apartment. We’re splitting the costs, but the one-bedroom in the heart of Paris is still beyond pricey—especially with the view of the Eiffel Tower the online portfolio claimed. But you only live once, might as well enjoy it.

Stepping off the elevator, we walk down the hall and Ansel unlocks the door to our apartment.

He lets out a low whistle. “Wow, this is nice.”

He’s not kidding, either. The interior is painted a creamy white color, with detailing of the walls harking back to a different era. The crown molding is exquisitely detailed and the furniture is all fairly new in a more contemporary style with bold colors. My eyes can’t seem to look away from the cobalt blue velvet couch.

“Meadows! Come look at this!” I didn’t realize Ansel had left my line of sight. I leave my bags and follow the sound of his voice, finding him in the bedroom standing at the opened double doors leading to a wrought iron balcony. “Look.” He steps aside, making room beside his body for me to join.