Page 100 of Things I Overshared

I put my face in my hands. He has got to be actively trying to get me to fall in love with him. Has got to be. And he’s succeeding. He wraps his big arms around me and puts a hand on my neck. I breathe him in, feeling my heart split open at the scent, his scent, mixed with Paris air and fresh flowers placed throughout our suite. I notice he’s wrapped around me facing away from the view.

“But you hate this. How are you even on the balcony right now?”

“I’ll manage.”

I slowly walk us back into the suite, beaming at him. “You got us a penthouse with a sweeping view when you hate sweeping views.”

“It’s not for me.”

I groan. “Did I mention this is too much?” I flop my head back down in my hands on his big warm chest.

“Now, I have a question for you, Miss Canton,” he murmurs into my ear.

“No,” I mumble into his amazing pecs.

He laughs.

“Sorry. Sweet, sunny, sexy Samantha.” I look up at him. “Would you like to go to dinner with me?”

“Are you asking me out on an actual date?”

“Mhmm.” He runs his hands up and down my back as his eyes roam my face.

“I’d love to, but . . . there was talk of ravishing?”

“I know, but you’re starving.”

Am I starving? Holy crap, I am starving. What the hell?

I huff. “How did you know that?”

“I’m famished, and if I am, you definitely are.”

“Are you saying I eat more than you?”

“I’m saying you eat rubbish that doesn’t tide you over.” He smacks me with a firm peck on the lips. He runs his hands down to that gathered seam on my leggings again. I yelp when he gives me a playful spank and pushes me away. “Go change.”

“Psh, I can’t wear this on a date?”

“You can’t wear those out of the hotel room.” He moves to slap me again, and I laugh and run into the suite. It’s a lot smaller than the one I’d booked, but every bit as stunning. It’s all gold and white and cream, tons of light, and only one giant, heavenly bed. Those butterflies find their way through me again when my eyes land on it.

I unpack my clothes into the dresser and closet, and Emerson does too. It’s totally domestic and dreamy and way too quiet for me. I put in my earbuds and launch my Paris playlist. I choose a flowy, red polka-dot dress for our date. It’s more romantic than it is sexy, but I make the low-cut neckline work with my push-up bra. Emerson is in the dining nook that leads out to the balcony waiting for me, and I stop short of going to him because.

Wow.

I could be looking at a magazine ad for men’s suits, or cologne, or watches that cost more than cars. He’s just perfect, standing there in the soft light, one hand in his pocket, a pensive look on his face as he stares down at his iPad on the table. He hasn’t changed out of his navy suit and white shirt, no vest or tie, and still looking as fresh as he did this morning. He spots me and turns. In two steps, he’s right in front of me, breathing hard and looking straight down my dress, since I’m much shorter than him in my little white walking sneakers.

“Perhaps we should just get room service,” he says softly. He puts his hands on my hips, which must have nerve endings connected directly to my center.

“Fine with me.” I beam up at him, but he shakes his head.

“We only have a couple dinners on our own while we’re here.” His hands slide up my sides to just barely caress the outsides of my bra, which I wish was thinner. “But maybe let’s be quick about it.” I let out a giggle, and he smiles, a full, kill-me-now smile that shows his straight white teeth and crinkles the skin by his eyes.

_________

“Will you tell me about the accident?” I ask, feeling brave.

On our way to this little hole-in-the-wall restaurant, Emerson had the driver drop us off at the exact right spot so we could walk through the arts district. We strolled along the cobblestone streets and saw so many pinch-me things I’d googled. The Moulin Rouge.La Vigne de Montmartre, a hidden hillside vineyard whose sidewalk is crammed full of bright flowers. Specific streets lined with historical buildings in quirky colors, some covered in ivy, among about a million cafés. Plus,easel after easel in rows, with street artists painting all along our walk.