Page 68 of The Stipulation
Inside, the smell of fresh oil paint and turpentine mingles with wood and varnish. Jo drifts forward, her eyes scanning each canvas with intent curiosity, her fingers curling lightly around the strap of her bag. I watch her, marveling at the way she leans in close to study brush strokes, the subtle arch of her brow,the way her lips press together when she’s concentrating. It’s dangerous the effect she has on me.
“What do you think?” she whispers, nodding toward a small canvas of a Parisian street in the rain, blurred figures moving through the puddles like ghosts.
“It feels lonely,” I murmur. “Like a memory you can’t quite touch anymore, but it has left a mark on you all the same.”
She tilts her head to the side, studying me curiously. “That’s actually a very good interpretation. Are you sure you’re not secretly a painter?”
I grin wolfishly. “If I were, would you be my muse?”
“Muse, huh? I don’t think you’d survive having me as a muse. I’d demand all your attention.”
“Attention is exactly what I was planning to give you,” I drawl.
“Flattery and charm…” she says impishly.
I let my gaze linger on hers, and I see it then, the quickening of her pulse, the playful spark in her eyes.
We drift back into the streets, slipping past a café with tiny round tables and bright red chairs. Street musicians play nearby, a violin and an accordion. I catch her humming softly under her breath, and I can’t resist teasing her.
“Do you have a voice like that in the shower too, or is it just for Montmartre?” I ask as we pass the musicians.
She laughs, batting at my arm. “Cheeky. It’s just for Paris. You’ll have to earn a private performance elsewhere.”
“Challenge accepted.”
Eventually, we reach thePlace du Tertre, the square where Montmartre artists display their work. The square is buzzing with color, chatter, and the aroma of street food, the sweetness of crepes, and the saltiness of fresh fries in paper cones. Artists sit on fold away stools, sketching or painting, tourists meander around with cameras. Musicians play lively tunes that carryacross the square. Jo glances around, her eyes wide, drinking it all in.
“This is insane. I love it.”
“I thought you’d like it here,” I say as I steady her on the cobblestones. “It’s chaotic and vibrant, like someone captured a heartbeat.”
She looks at me. “You’re full of metaphors today, aren’t you?”
“Only for you,” I declare.
She laughs softly, shaking her head, but I see it - the slight darkening in her eyes, the warmth spreading across her cheeks. We wander past the artists, peeking into tiny galleries, smelling the faint scents of oil and canvas. Our voices blend with the chatter and music, playful, teasing, intimate. At some point, we start bumping elbows intentionally, laughing at how absurdly close we’ve gotten.
“You know,” I remark as we pass a small fountain. “I thought we were coming to Paris to catch a thief. Instead, I’ve found a whole new adventure.”
Her eyes dance with happiness. “Good. That means you’re ready forSacré-Cœur”
I realize that I would follow her anywhere right now. Even to the top ofSacré-Cœur, which looms above the square, waiting for us to tackle it.
The climb is steep, the cobblestones replaced with stone steps that curve like a spiral up the hill. Occasionally, Jo leans into me for balance. I luxuriate in the feeling of protecting her and that delicious tension between us.
“Slow down, Axel,” she huffs, laughing. “I only have short legs, you know.”
“They didn’t feel short last night when I opened them wide and ate you out,” I say as we pass a wrought iron railing.
She shoots me an outraged look. “Oh, I’ll get even with you for that. Just you wait.”
I grin. “Can’t wait.”
By the time we reach the lookout spot, the city spreads beneath us in a glittering patchwork of roof tops, bridges, and winding streets. Jo gasps, leaning against the railing, as we take in the view together.
“You see,” I murmur, my voice low, my words just for her. “This is what I mean. Paris is magnificent, but it’s nothing compared to …”
She interrupts me with a nudge. “Compared to me? Axel, you’re such a flatterer.”
