Page 39 of Most Likely to Deny Love (Yearbook #2)

MIA

T he Parisian morning air felt different somehow. Crisper. More alive with possibility. Or maybe that was just me, walking down a narrow street with Jack’s hand firmly clasped in mine, still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I was actually in Paris. With Jack. In Paris.

Jack’s voice cut into my thoughts. “You’re quiet. Still processing?”

I laughed, the sound coming out a little breathless.

“That’s one way to put it. I mean, that hotel, Jack.

That view.” I shook my head, searching for words adequate enough to express the riot of emotions swirling inside me.

“I’ve dreamed about coming to Paris since I was a little girl.

I have this travel brochure I keep in my desk drawer.

I take it out whenever I’m feeling a bit shit, and imagine being here. ”

“And now you are.” His voice was soft, his eyes warm as they held mine. “Is it living up to expectations so far?”

“It’s better.” The words came out without hesitation. “Being here with you makes it a thousand times better.”

Something flashed across his face, an emotion too complex to name, before he leaned down and pressed a kiss to my forehead.

For a fleeting moment, I wondered if I’d said too much, revealed too much of the growing feelings I could barely admit to myself. But then his lips curved into that half-smile that never failed to make my heart skip.

“Come on.” He tugged me forward. “The boulangerie is just around the corner. You won’t believe these croissants.”

The tiny shop was tucked between a bookstore and a flower shop, its storefront unassuming except for the heavenly scent wafting through the open door.

Inside, the space was warm and cozy, with just enough room for a small marble counter and glass display cases filled with pastries that looked too perfect to be real.

An older woman with silver-streaked hair smiled as we entered, greeting Jack by name as if they were old friends. I raised an eyebrow at him.

“You come here often enough to be on a first-name basis?”

“Every time I’m in Paris,” he admitted, looking almost sheepish. “Madame Rousseau makes the best pain au chocolat in the city.”

The woman spoke rapidly in French, gesturing to the display case. Jack responded in kind, his accent sounding surprisingly authentic to my untrained ear. After a brief exchange that I couldn’t follow, he guided me to a tiny table in the corner.

“I ordered for us,” he explained. “Trust me?”

“With pastries?” I grinned. “Absolutely.”

Moments later, Madame Rousseau brought over a basket of still-warm croissants, two pain au chocolat, and two café crèmes in delicate porcelain cups. The first bite of buttery, flaky pastry nearly made me moan out loud.

“Oh my god,” I mumbled through a mouthful of croissant. “This is... I can’t even... Jack, seriously.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he watched me, clearly enjoying my reaction. “Worth the flight?”

“Worth every second,” I confirmed, taking another bite and closing my eyes to savor it. When I opened them again, I found Jack still watching me, the intensity in his expression sending heat pooling low in my belly.

“What?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious. “Do I have crumbs on my face?”

“No.” His voice was lower, rougher. “I just like watching you enjoy things.”

The double meaning wasn’t lost on me, and I felt my cheeks flush. To distract myself, I reached for my coffee, taking a careful sip of the rich, creamy brew.

“So what’s the plan for today?” I asked, hoping my voice sounded steadier than it felt.

“We’ll walk back through the Tuileries Gardens first. Then we can walk along the Seine for a bit, which will get us to Notre Dame. After that, lunch, and the Louvre in the afternoon.”

“Sounds perfect.” I finished the last of my croissant, already mourning its loss. “I’m ready when you are.”

We wandered back down the street and into the gardens, hand in hand. We’d stopped at a particularly pretty fountain when Jack’s phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket, glancing at the screen.

“Sorry, I need to take this.”

“Of course.”

He half turned away from me as he raised the phone to his ear. “Hey.”

Within seconds, his whole demeanor changed as his shoulders bunched up and he ran his hand through his hair, taking a few steps away from me.

“What do the doctors say?”

The gentleness in his voice was so different from anything I’d heard from him that my curiosity flared. Eavesdropping would be super rude, though, so I moved away to give him privacy. Still, fragments of his conversation floated to me.

“...can change the prescription if it’s not working...”

“...of course I don’t mind...”

“...should have told me sooner...”

“…I can come to you…”

He was quiet for a few moments, clearly listening intently. Then, “Why on earth are you worried about me at a time like this?”

More silence from Jack before he said, “How about we shelve that for now and focus on finding out what’s going on with you?”

Someone he loved was sick, that much was obvious. The fact that I knew so little about his personal life suddenly felt more significant than it had before.

After a few moments, his voice warmed again. “I love you too. I’ll call tomorrow to check in.” He ended the call and stood motionless for a moment, staring at nothing, his hand still gripping the phone too tightly.

I gave him a moment before moving to his side and slipping my hand in his. “Jack? Everything okay?” I asked cautiously.

I waited, giving him space to elaborate if he wanted to. When he didn’t, I squeezed his hand gently. “You know, if you need to head back to the hotel to make more calls or... anything, I completely understand.”

For a moment, something vulnerable flickered across his face, worry, fear maybe, before he visibly pushed it down. He took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he made what seemed like a conscious decision to stay present.

“Thank you,” he said softly, and I knew he meant it. He raised my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my palm. “But there’s no need for that. The situation is being handled. I promised you Paris, and Paris you’ll have.”

His smile was a little forced, but I didn’t push. Everyone was entitled to their private worries, even in Paris.

“Monsieur Sullivan, bienvenue,” a slender man in an impeccable suit greeted us at a side entrance to the Louvre, bypassing the main queue entirely. “Everything is arranged as you requested.”

Jack thanked him in flawless French, his hand resting possessively at the small of my back.

The touch was innocent enough, but after our lunch and our visit to Notre Dame, after the way he’d watched me with those intense eyes all morning, even the lightest brush of his fingers against me felt charged with electricity.

“What exactly did you arrange?” I asked as we were led through corridors far less crowded than the main halls.

“A special tour. There’s a one off exhibit that opens tomorrow. We’ve got special access.”

I smiled. “I can’t wait to see it.”

Our guide, Pierre, led us through a series of corridors that seemed to wind deeper into the museum, away from the public areas. We stopped before a set of double doors where a security guard nodded at Pierre before unlocking them.

Pierre gestured us inside. “This way, please. The exhibition is titled ‘Desire Through the Ages’ – a collection of erotic art spanning from ancient Greece to the late 19th century.”

We stepped inside, and I immediately felt the shift in atmosphere. The room was dimly lit, with strategic spotlights illuminating each piece.

“We’ll begin with the classical period,” Pierre said, guiding us toward a series of Greek statues. The marble figures twisted together in impossible positions, looking exactly like they’d been captured mid orgy.

“This collection has been brought together from museums across Europe,” Pierre explained, his professional tone sounding so odd, considering what we were looking at, that I almost laughed. “Many of these pieces have rarely been displayed together.”

I lagged behind as Pierre moved on. “Jack?”

He dragged his eyes from the statue, his gaze hooded when he looked at me. “Yes?”

“D-did you know this was, um, like this?” I gestured to the statues.

Jack shook his head. “I just asked for a private viewing of something, without specifying.”

“Oh. Well, that was very nice of you.”

Jack’s hand rested lightly on my back as we moved through the exhibition, completely professional, completely proper. Why did he have to smell so heavenly? Why did he make me imagine what it would be like to strip him right here and lick him all over?

Jesus Christ, you psycho. Pull yourself together.

We stopped in front of another statue. This one was a man, holding a woman in his arms, his hand between her legs while her head was thrown back in ecstasy.

Jack leaned close, his lips brushing my ear. “What do you think?”

I couldn’t form words. Not with his breath hot against my skin, not with the images of entangled bodies surrounding us, not with the growing ache between my thighs. Clearing my throat, I said, “I’m thinking these old guys sure were horny.”

Jack laughed softly as we moved on to the next piece. This one was a Roman fresco. I read the plaque, which said it was a Bacchanal. Basically, naked people writhing together in wine soaked abandon.

Pierre droned on about artistic technique and historical context, while Jack nodded along with genuine interest. How was he so damn calm? I was practically melting, and he was discussing brushstrokes and historical context like we were looking at landscapes.

“This section features works from the Renaissance and Baroque periods,” Pierre continued, leading us toward a collection of paintings. “Often these works were commissioned privately and kept hidden from public view.”

I could damn well see why.