Page 54 of My One Week Husband
My world spirals into bliss, into something ecstatic that feels like the truest risk of all—falling into love.
But surely it’s a chance we can take together.
That’s what I tell myself. Even though I fear it’s a lie.
24
Scarlett
I have a confession.
“This is my first time in Lyon,” I tell my traveling companion the next day.
Daniel’s eyes grow to the size of beach balls. He blinks, jerking his head back. “Woman, how is that even possible?”
I shrug with a smile. “I don’t know. I guess I should blame it on Paris, right? It was too enticing to leave.”
“Naturally, Paris should always take the blame,” he says as we leave the inn in Lyon and make our way across the cobblestones, heading to the nearby Rhône river that cuts through the city. “But still . . . how is it that you never found your way here?”
I glance around, soaking in the architecture, the winding streets, the gorgeous hills. “Now that I’m here, I’m asking myself that same question, because I already adore Lyon. I think I’ve fallen in love with this city at first sight,” I say as we walk across one of the smaller bridges, a red iron latticework one curving over the Rhône, near a steepled church set into a high hillside.
The inn is perched up on the hillside too, overlooking the river. This place needs a little work, some sprucing up here and there, a bit of new decor, so my tablet has been kept quite busy with notes here on the fifth day of our trip. But it’s good to find things to work on. A plan helps me to focus on the practical—vitally important when the impractical side of me is spinning wildly out of control the more time I spend with this man.
Yet I don’t want to stop spending time with him. Don’t want to stop exploring with him.
We stop in the middle of the bridge, our hands curling over the railing. “I take it you’ve been to Lyon before? Wait, don’t tell me. You performed here,” I say, teasing him.
He laughs, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, and I’m so glad I made him laugh about something that can hurt. He nuzzles my hair. “Look at you, already taking the piss out of me about my once-upon-a-time career.”
I slink closer, looping my arms around his waist. “And you like that I do that,” I say.
He pulls back, tucks his finger under my chin, and raises my face to meet his eyes. “I do. I truly do.”
He sighs a little wistfully, then turns his gaze back to the water, staring out at the curving ribbon as he leaves his arm around me. He doesn’t say anything, and I suspect he’s remembering the last time he was here. Maybe with his family.
“Were you here on vacation when you were younger?” I ask.
“Yes, I was . . . maybe twelve,” he says, seeming a little lost in thought. I say nothing, giving him the space to keep going if he wants. “There’s so much history in this town. I always loved that when I was a kid. I asked them to bring me here.”
A grin spreads across my face as I picture him as a kid, tugging on his parents’ hands, asking for a trip. “Why did you want to explore Lyon when you were a young English boy?”
His blue eyes glint. “Don’t tell anyone, but I had a secret fascination with the French Revolution. I guess I loved the idea of the revolutionary spirit, so I made them take me to France, to visit Versailles and Paris and Lyon. I wanted to come here and learn more about this city’s role in the French Revolution, but I think I was most taken by the river.”
“Ah, that I understand. I’m the same way,” I say.
“Are you a river junkie?”
I gaze out at the water, drawing in a huge inhale. “I have a bit of a thing for them. I feel this primal, almost ancient sort of connection to the Seine. Which is not entirely surprising, because I feel a sort of primal, almost ancient connection to Paris. Is that crazy?”
He shakes his head. “No. Paris has that effect on people. Paris has an effect on you. I told you the other day, you were made for Paris and Paris was made for you.”
“When my parents first took me there, I knew deep in my heart,” I say, tapping my chest fiercely, “that I would live there someday.”
“It spoke to you when you were younger?”
I tell him all about my connection to the city, how I feel at home there, at peace there. “Do you know that’s why I moved away from London? Because my marriage ended?”
His expression goes serious. “I don’t think I entirely knew why you left London, only that you were leaving shortly after I met you. And I enjoyed visiting you in Paris once you were there.”
