Page 97 of Pretty Mess

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

He offers me his arm. “Come along. I’ve no wish to live out my retirement on these steps.”

When we reach the top, I collapse dramatically against a low wall. “Kill me now.”

He lifts his hand and pushes my sweaty hair off my face. The gentleness of the movement seems to surprise him because he stops dead, his hand still outstretched.

I decide to help him out by stepping into him and holding my face up for a kiss. He drops a light one on my lips and pulls back, but then immediately reconnects again, kissing me deeply. I wind my hands around his neck, feeling his hair silky against my cheek as it flops forward.

When he steps back, I sway towards him. He places a hand on my chest, and I think he’ll turn away, but then his lifts to my face, cupping my cheekbone. We stare at each other, and his eyes are wide and dark. Then he blinks, and I sigh as the moment passes.

“You’re missing the view,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“I’m really not.”

His mouth quirks, and he points behind me. I turn and gasp. Paris is laid out before me like a magic carpet. I can see the Eiffel Tower lit up and twinkling and my gaze traces the Seine as it winds through the city. It’s a sea of roofs and towers, and even as I watch, a ray of sun breaks through the clouds, landing on a church and making the metal dome sparkle and flame.

Mac comes to stand next to me, and I slide my arm through his. I’m growing to love doing this far too much, and I’m pretty sure he’s humouring me. Either that or he actually likes the closeness. That mind-boggling thought is lost as the weather decides to break. The wind picks up, blowing our jackets open, and rain starts to drizzle down.

“Come along,” he says at once. “Let’s get something to eat. I know a good place nearby. You must be hungry.” His lip quirks. “Especially after that marathon.”

“I’d say triathlon.”

“Isn’t water involved in that?”

“I sweated.”

He laughs, his face alight with amusement. I’m pretty sure that’s laugh number ten. I’m hoarding them like Midas with a gold wallet.

He leads me down a side street just as the rain comes down harder, stinging my face. The wind gusts, slapping the last remaining blossoms from the trees like a spoilt child.

“Shit,” I gasp, and he takes my elbow.

“Let’s run.”

Laughing and occasionally skidding on the slippery cobbles, we race along. We come to a small square lined with restaurants and bistros. He heads for one with a jaunty pink and black awning and stops to hold the door open for me. The smell of something delicious cooking hits me, and I sniff hungrily like a dog at the butcher’s window.

Inside, it’s charming, with dark furniture and comfortable banquettes. The walls are painted scarlet and filled with old French advertising posters showing beauty products.

A man at the counter turns at the sound of the doorbell and gives a shout of welcome that startles me. He takes two steps forward and drags Mac into a hug, talking all the time in rapid French while I observe them interestedly.

Mac returns the hug and then steps neatly back. “This is Wes,” he says, pushing me forward with a hand at my back. I smile politely at the giant of a man. He has long, messy black hair and very warm brown eyes. “Wes can’t speak French,” Mac adds and then shrugs. “He barely manages English if we’re being completely honest.”

“Hey,” I say crossly, and he laughs.

The man stares at him, looking almost surprised. Then he smiles at me, and it’s so kind that I relax. “I am Claude. Nice to meet you, Wes.” He turns back to Mac. “How are you, my friend? Are you here for a while?”

Mac shakes his head. “Just for today. You know how it is.”

Claude’s face is wry. “I do, indeed.” He gathers two menus from the counter and turns back to Mac. “You never call. You never write. I am mortified, yes?”

“Erm, no.” The giant laughs, and Mac shrugs. “I have been busy.”

“Hmm,” Claude says, shooting me a look I pretend not to see. “Well, come and sit down. You shall have the best seats in the house.” He winks at me. “He should do, seeing as he owns half the business.”

“Does he?” I turn to Mac, who immediately grimaces.

“No nosiness, please, until I have a few bottles of wine inside me. I’m begging you,” he says to Claude. “Don’t give Wes any room to ask a question, because he’ll immediately ask a thousand.”