Royce scoots forward and taps the glass between us and the chauffeur and the one bodyguard that rode up front with us.

“Guys. Okay. Let’s re-adjust. Can we do some sort of drive-by-Parisian-tour? How about we drive the entire Champs-Elysées both directions, then we hit all the famous roundabouts beginning with the Arc de Triumph. Oh, and just go around and around that one for a while—like ten times? Oh, and because we’ve had success with boats before, could one of you please call PR and see if it would be possible to rent out one of the entire tour boats that go up and down the Seine for tomorrow. Maybe if we can’t walk through the streets of Paris like we planned, we can at least float past Notre Dame and all see of the famous bridges, right?”

He glances back at me and I grin, wider and wider.

The bodyguard nods. “I’ll tell your PA crew of the change in plans for tonight. But, Sir.” The guy glances back. “Please know we’re currently being tailed by at least five paparazzi in different vehicles. Also, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but it’s very doubtful you’d be allowed to rent one of those floating tour boats, because once word got out you and the guys from the band were floating under the bridges, all of Paris would be in a traffic shut down while people flocked to each bridge, trying to get a glimpse of you. Even without vetting this, I can imagine fans trying to jump onto the boat or some such nonsense. I will check, but in my honest opinion, it’s not advised, Sir. We’ve already been fined big-time for causing traffic mayhem by the City of Paris. Because of that, Gregory and your grandmother are going to suggest you and Robin hole up in the hotel for the next two days until the red-carpet awards ceremony. ”

“What? Seriously?” Royce frowns at that news, then turns and surveys the cars tailing the limo. “Fine.” He sighs out. “What’s your advice on the paparazzi for tonight? Can we at least have tonight?”

“If no one exits the car and we drive a steady pace, we’re good to go,” he answers. “Will keep you posted if anything changes. Hunter and Vere have volunteered to go out on the town nearby the hotel, so maybe this crew will lose interest and head over there.”

“Thank you. And please tell them, thank you, too.” Royce nods, and the privacy window zooms back up.

“Damn. Robin…I’m so sorry. No museums. No Boat…it would probably be dangerous for you, so…just…sorry.”

It’s suddenly too quiet in the limo again, but this time it’s my fault. I can’t quite think of anything to say because I’m having a hard time hiding just how much I love Royce’s protectiveness, sweetness and utter thoughtfulness.

Because I’d never had any sort of boyfriend before marrying Royce, I’ve started wondering if this kind, endless consideration is what it might feel like if someone truly fell in love with me?

“If it helps at all, Royce. I…uh, love the idea of hanging in the hotel, and I’m pretty sure I get really sick on boats,” I lie, because I’ve never been on any kind of boat, but I’m trying to make him feel better. “It was a cool idea, though.”

His sigh is half frustrated half agonized as he says, “Come to this side.” He taps the seat next to him and I swap from facing him to sitting side by side with him on the back bench.

“At the very least, I did manage to stash one bucket-list surprise in here this limo for you. I was saving it to take up to the top of the Eiffel Tower, but we can…open it here.”

“What is it?” My smile returns. “Oh my gosh, if you got me a present—well—I’ve got nothing to give back to you.”

“It’s not exactly a present. It’s an…experience.” He leans forward and pushes a button on the limo’s center table. A silent hydraulic lift eases up a hidden compartment. Inside of it, a half-sized, opaque green bottle with gold wrap on the top is sitting in a mini ice container is revealed. Though small, it’s on this very fancy silver platter, and resting inside what looks like giant flakes of hand crushed ice. It’s also been paired with two amazing clear crystal flutes. Even better, there’s dainty plate of massive, chocolate dipped strawberries, also set on gorgeous chipped ice.

“Champagne?” I gasp out. “Wow. And Wow. Real Champagne.”

His answering smile looks so happy it warms my heart. “I nabbed it from the mini-bar in our room and had the chauffeur set it up for us in advance.” He whispers. “It’s maybe enough for a glass for each of us, but I wanted to be the one who got to taste Champagne with you the first time.”

He blinks, then pulls this face like for some reason he regrets what he just said. “I mean, I wanted you to taste it with me. First. First because…uh… we will have to drink a bunch more of this stuff on the night of the Paris Teen Select awards on our last night here.”

“We will? Why?”

“The entire French region of Champagne is sponsoring us to be at the entire event and sponsoring the event itself. Champagne where they grow the grapes to make it. There is some national marketing push to make Champagne cool for younger people right now.” He shrugs. “It’s a huge deal and all Guarderobe people will be expected to be holding a glass of this stuff the whole night all while making it look exciting and delicious. Le-drink-to-drink!” He winks. “Considering you’re one of the group’s most watched stars right now, you have to be able to handle yourself.”

“Does this have anything to do with your grandmother telling you how I freaked when she tried to get me to eat a whole bunch of caviar?”

“Yes.” He laughs.

“To be fair, that was the same day she made me taste those snails. I could only take so much, you know?” I add, trying to slow down how fast I’m talking. “It’s my first champagne, in a limo, in Paris. This is even better than the Eiffel Tower. I’m sure of it.”

“Robin…you’re always letting me off the hook. Why are you so damn nice about that?” He bumps shoulders with me.

“Because it’s never directly your fault.”

“Isn’t me, being me, my fault?”

I don’t answer that as he leans forward and pulls the Champagne out of the ice, because…I’m not sure, and because I don’t want to argue with him.

I momentarily panic, holding back the comment that I’ve never had anything alcoholic to drink in my life past a couple sips of my dad’s beer once, because I don’t want to ruin the moment. But…what if I mess this up somehow? What if I spit it out and it sucks way worse than caviar sucks?

He’s draped a white cloth over his forearm and he shows me the bottle, pretending to be a waiter now. “Does the lady approve of the vintage?”

“Yes, as long as it’s real Champagne.” I laugh, admiring the label while pointing at the top of the bottle. “And it must be, because it even has the little twisty thing up top as well as one of those extra-fat corks.”

“Did you know you can only get Champagne from France? It has to be from the Champagne region? All the other bubbling wines have different names like…Prosecco. That’s the bubbling wine of Italy. Cava, that’s from Spain. They aren’t allowed to call it Champagne unless, it is—” He pauses to points at the scrolling word on the label and reads, “Champagne.” He wiggles his brows. “Do you want me to open it?”

“Yes,” I say, feeling my stomach flutter with anticipation. He starts to work through the thick gold foil hiding the cork and I poke at the fancy ice chips, accidentally knocking some of them onto the silver platter. “But…Royce…uh…”

“What?” He pauses, his fingers poised on this little twisty wire thing that’s sticking off the cork.

“I’m only eighteen. Won’t we be severely judged about this on social media should anyone snap a pic?”

“Now you sound like me. Haven’t you learned yet that we’re severely judged for simple breathing? Has my worrying rubbed off on you that much?”

“Yes?”

“It’s okay.” He bites his lower lip, and shakes his head at me. “I double checked, and our PR group also double checked because I asked them to. If someone does get a photo of us having a sip of this stuff, it will be okay. The legal drinking age for wine products in France is sixteen. Eighteen for the hard stuff. You’re good to go and completely legal. If anything it’s expected you drink gallons of this stuff while you’re here, especially at the awards ceremony coming up.”

“Okay. Yay! I’m of legal drinking age. Feels nice to have grown up so fast here in Europe.” I add wiggling my own brows back at him, laughing. “A sip or two tonight, and then…long as this tastes okay, I will try gallons of the at the awards ceremony.

“Please note that gallons of anything will give you a horrible hangover, and you will be vomiting all over Paris should you try more than three glasses so…pace yourself, yes?”

“Fine. Yes. Of course.” I clap my hands, relaxing finally. “And can we please note that this Champagne-info-night is so much more fun already than the itty bitty pickles lesson you gave me off of the room service cart yesterday.”

His brows shoot up and he laughs. “They were called, petit cornichons,” he adds in his sexy very perfect French accent that always sends goosebumps down my spine.

“Peter and Cornish-hens. Got it,” I joke, because I’ve long since given up on ever having any sort of decent French accent. I’ve also learned that if you are as terrible as I am at French, then it’s offensive to even try. So I don’t. “Despite what they’re called, though. Some of those baby pickle jars will be packed in my suitcase when I go home.”

He laughs again. “They sell them in every market in the states.”

“Not where I shop.” I mutter out distractedly watching intently as he slowly begins to untwist the basket covering the cork. “I can’t believe Champagne, even tiny Champagne, has to be literally tied down into the bottle. So cool.” My anticipation butterflies double as the thing loosens. “I hope it goes pop, like it does in the movies. It will, won’t it?”

His silver eyes glint with amusement as they flick to me, then back to the bottle. “Shh. I’m supposed to be very careful.”

* * *

The limo goes from stuck in traffic to creeping along the street. It gains speed as it moves us through some side streets that take us further from the Eiffel Tower. We both pause and stare out the window as we turn onto the famous, double-wide Champs-Elysées.

Unable to contain my excitement, I blurt out. “Holy cow, this is same street that I know from history class. Our classroom had this famous photograph of when German tanks to rolled down her during WWII, and here it is, exactly the same as the photo, minus any soldiers and tanks, and all lit up with twinkle lights, on shop windows and in tress and…it’s freaking perfect.”

The limo gains speed and we zoom along heading directly the famous Arch De Triumph which is still very far ahead of us. For a moment, when I glance over at the beautiful guy who’s watching me watch Paris fly by the window with the strangest expression on his face, and I shake my head at him, asking, “Why do you always stare at me?”

“Because…uh…because for…two million reasons I can’t say,” is his cryptic answer. “And, because you’re beautiful when you’re soaking up the world.”

“Oh, uh. Okay…well thank you, and stop that, would you?” I point at the bottle. “Open the rest of that bottle so we can have our first sips when we’re zooming past the arch!”

Suddenly Royce is acting like I’ve embarrassed him, when in fact I should be the one that’s embarrassed, he turns back to the Champagne. Wire basket off now, he makes sure to tilt the bottle so the cork is facing away from both of us before taking the white napkin off of his forearm, then places that over the top of the cork.

“What are you doing?”

“I had to watch a YouTube video on how to open it just right. I talk like I know shit, but everything I learned was off my phone about an hour ago. Also, I’ve already had one black eye while hanging out with you in a limo, and I don’t need another.” He winks, calling up the first day we met when I’d back-elbowed him in the face. “Ready? Listen.” He points the top of the bottle away from us and does this concentrated half twist until it the cork makes a perfect Champagne-popping sound.”

“Yes!” I call out.

He pulls the bottle out from under the cloth and hands me the cork which I quickly tuck into my purse to save, and we both watch in wonder as what looks like magical steam and a few bubbles rises out of the top of the bottle. When it clearly isn’t going to blow up or spill over, he gingerly pours us each a glass.

“Cheers,” he says, handing me mine. I hardly notice him clinking my glass with his, because I’ve been struck motionless, watching multiple lines of micro-bubbles floating up and up on what appear to be endless, self-replenishing streams.

“Beautiful. Champagne is utterly beautiful,” I whisper.

“Very beautiful.” He traps my eyes with his over the glasses like he’s waiting for us to both have our sips at the same time.

Scrunching up my nose, I pause to sniff at the top of my glass, flicking him a glance. “I’m afraid to taste it. What if it’s terrible and then forever I’ll have ruined this perfect memory.” I point out the window. “Because look, we’re into the round-about, and…ahh, the Arc de Triumph is right out there!” I almost spill the entire contents of the glass getting closer to the window. “It’s huge.” I lean sideways and stare up, trying to get a better glimpse of the amazing monument as the limo starts going around the multi-lane round-about. “My heart is beating so fast right now. Is yours?”

Royce laughs. “Very, but it’s more about the dangerous traffic zooming all around us.”

“How many times did you tell him to go around this?” I sigh out, scooting back over to sit beside him again. “We should up whatever you said to two million times.”

“I told him only ten, because truly we’d get car sick if he does too many. So you ready?” He raises his glass high again and quirks one brow. “Cheers?”

“No, wait!” I scoot forward a little too fast and he flinches back like he thinks I’m a fangirl that’s going to attack him or something, which makes me feel bad.

“What?” he asks, trying to cover the flinch with a little shoulder shrug.

“This is my cliché Champagne moment. We must intertwine our arms. Can we?” I hold out my arm try to get our arms linked together without spilling, but to manage what I’m picturing, I have to sit up on my knees because he’s too tall.

That move nearly topples me off the seat. Worse, he’s had to pull me back upright to save me, and worse? I’ve spilled half of my glass all over myself, and he’s now laughing at me.

“Oh, man…” I frown down and wipe the wasted Champagne off of my lap. “I’ve already ruined it, haven’t I? Ugh. I’m so awkward. Can you try to forget that I just did that?” I try to pull my arm away, but he gently tightens his bicep and stiffens his arm to hold me fast so I can’t twist away.

“Never.” His voice is silk. Expression all easy-kindness plus heat, a combination that wipes away any mortification I was feeling. “The memory’s set in stone, and it’s perfect because you’re so damn adorable.”

“Well now who is letting who off the hook?” I laugh, breathing in until I’m able to return his easy smile.

He nods at my glass, and I realize my antics have brought him so close to me I can feel the minty-warmth of his breath hitting my cheeks. “You’re going to like it, Robin. I promise.”

I show him the remainder of my fancy flute. “One taste is all I have left.” I tip the glass back mouth and let it swirl around my tongue, then too quickly I’ve swallowed it. “Hmm.” I frown, wishing for another taste.

He takes a small sip of his own glass. “Hmm. What?”

Frowning I motion to his glass. “I’m not sure because I didn’t have that much to go on, but already, I think it should not be called Champagne. What does that even mean, Champagne?” I scoff out, shaking my head.

“Remember? Named after the region where the grapes grow. Here finish mine and then we’ll refill.” He hands over his glass, laughing as I down half of his in two big gulps. “Go easy now.”

“I would, but before each swallow, those cool bubbles start dancing on my tongue.” I finish two more gulps, then hand his empty glass back which is when I notice he’s staring at my lips. I lick them, worried that I’ve drooled champagne all over my face. Instead of helping, he stares at them even more as I add, “I think it…uh…should be called… something like, golden-bubble-dream-drink?”

“You should be called golden-bubble dream drink.”

“What? Uh…are you flirting with me? Bad flirting?” As the Champagne goes to my head, I start giggling.

He laughs too, then places both hands gently on the sides of my face. “Robin. What you do to me. Can I kiss you right now? One kiss, even though no one from the press is watching?” His voice is so whisper-gravelly-low it speeds up my heart just as the smell of his cologne floats over me like a wave, sending a twist of firing heat through my belly.

“Sure. If you want to?”

“Christ. I always want to.”

The laughter dies on my lips, as he pulls me onto his lap. The champagne, or his words, or that voice, or the way he’s pulling me deep into his silver gaze, or how his thumbs are going up past my temples and roughly into my hair makes me feel like something has changed between us. Or at least inside of me.

“We probably shouldn’t be…doing this…” he’s whispering.

“But it’s Paris…and it’s my first Champagne and I just said, yes.”

His lips are already on mine, or maybe mine were already on his.

I lean toward the pull of his hands, sink into that spot where his heart beats hard and loud, and his kiss he plants on me is so sweet…so gentle, despite the roughness that had been in his voice, it melts my spine. My heart. My soul.

The way I think he’s trembling as much as I am right now makes me I forget who I am, and for a moment I feel completely desolate because…how could what we have between us, even this beautiful-perfect-kiss—how could this not be something lasting or even…real? How?

When, in this moment in time it feels real, and because how his lips fit onto mine, and mine onto his feels like this guy’s soul is mine, really mine, just as much as mine feels like it belongs to him?

When he twines his arms around my waist to pull me next to him so my body puzzle-pieces so perfectly into him that I could swear my heart and his heart are beating simultaneously, I push away my thoughts and simply kiss him back.

But always, when the kiss is over and we pull away from each other the cool currents of air that rushes between us takes away everything I’d just imagined. And all of the good, the connection…the things I guess I can’t help but wish for, suddenly feel like a punch. A punch, that today…actually hurts.

My head is spinning, probably from that Champagne. And my heart aches how it always does while my lips throb like they want to say, that this kissing—it’s not enough, while my body thrums with absolute hunger and curiosity, because…

I don’t care if it’s real or not. I want more.

More. More. More.

And maybe…just maybe, after that awards show, after my allocated third glass of champagne that surely will give me courage to get to this kind of kissing with him again. I might just ask my-husband for more.

And I’m talking…so much more.