Page 65 of The Stipulation
I laugh, but there’s a flutter in my chest. “Do you want to?”
“Only if you’re daring enough,” he teases, his eyes sparkling.
We don’t have a lock, of course, but the idea, the gesture, is thrilling. I reach up and touch the bridge’s ironwork, letting my fingers linger.
“Maybe one day,” I murmur.
Axel pulls me even closer. “It’s a good reason to come back,” he says, his voice low, casual, teasing, but at the same time, entirely intentional.
I feel a shiver of delight and anticipation go through me.
We continue downstream, passing thePont Alexandre III, its golden statues luminous in the morning light, cherubs and nymphs frozen mid-dance. I breathe deeply as I take in theview of the grandiose bridges, the mansions along the quays, the ornate façades. I feel the thrill of seeing it all from this intimate perspective. Paris isn’t just a city; it’s a stage, a splendid show, and right now, we’re the only audience.
I lean against the railing, letting the breeze whip through my hair as Axel’s shoulder presses lightly against mine.
“You look like you belong here,” he says quietly. He’s not looking at me, but I feel every word.
I glance at him, teasing. “Really? You think I can pass for a Parisian?”
He smiles and meets my gaze. “Not Parisian. I just meant you’ve become a part of the captivating essence of this city for me. Like a memory you can’t forget once you’ve seen it.”
My pulse hammers, and I bite my lip to hide a smile. “You have a way with words, don’t you?”
He laughs softly. “Not words. Observation.”
We drift past theÎle Saint-Louis, the place we wandered through earlier. From the water, the narrow streets look delightfully quaint, the rooftops stacked like careful brush strokes, ivy clinging to walls, tiny balconies spilling with brightly colored flowers. I point out the little ice cream shop where we’d just been, and his eyes light up.
“You figured it out,” he says, his voice warm.
“Of course,” I reply, grinning. “How can I forget the place where I met lavender ice-cream?”
The boat slows near thePont Neuf, and I watch as pedestrians cross above, oblivious to our little floating boat. I can see the cafés where the morning bustle has begun, the clink of cups against saucers and the murmur of conversation carried on the wind. It’s magical, surreal, and utterly Parisian.
Axel leans toward me under the pretense of pointing out a gargoyle on a bridge. His body brushes mine, and I feel the faintest heat at the contact.
“See that?” he murmurs. “That kind of craftsmanship is gone.”
I glance at it, nodding, but my eyes keep flicking to him. “Yup,” I agree, letting my tone match his, intimate, soft, teasing.
He smiles, clearly noticing my distraction. “You’re not really looking at the gargoyle, are you?”
“Maybe not entirely,” I admit, laughing softly.
“Good,” he murmurs. His hand brushes mine again, lingering just a fraction longer than a casual brush would entail. “Because I’m not really looking either.”
My heart twists in a way I can’t quite name. The boat passes Pont Marie, the elegant arches reflected in the water, and Axel points out a small café on the quay below.
“I bet that’s the kind of place you’d pick,” he says, eyes teasing. “Hidden, charming, full of character.”
I grin. “You think you know me so well, don’t you?”
“Am I right?” he asks softly, brushing the hair whipping around my face.
I feel warmth spread through me, dizzying and comforting all at once. “Attention can be dangerous,” I murmur.
“Not if it’s the right kind,” he whispers.
The boat rounds a bend near theÎle de la Cité,and I catch the light glinting off the buildings, the water shimmering around us in flecks of silver and gold. The reflection of the city feels like magic beneath us, an endless painting moving with the waves. Axel leans closer, shoulder brushing the side of my breasts, and I’m acutely aware of every subtle movement, every shared glance.
