Griffin

The days unfold like this. At dawn I run, then I help Joy at work in the morning. In the afternoon, I focus on written translations. In the early evening, I meet her, and we walk and we talk. I make her tell me about her day, and I ask her questions. As we wander through St. Germain des Pres, over the Pont Neuf, and along the Seine, stopping for a chocolate éclair, a café noisette, or a glass of wine, she makes strides, each day sounding better, gaining confidence. We stroll through the markets, we dart into shops, and we meander past the bouquinistes, where one day Joy chats with Julien, finding the words to buy a dozen sepia-tinted postcards of Paris.

“You’ve never brought a woman by before,” Julien remarks to me, his voice low, his words so quick I’m sure she won’t understand.

“Ah, that must mean I really like you,” I tease.

He grunts. “It means you like her.”

I wave a hand dismissively. “It means you have good postcards, mate.”

He grumbles a thank you then hands the cards to Joy.

As we pass other stalls peddling old books, vintage posters, and Life magazines from decades ago, Joy asks what we talked about. “I heard the word like,” she says, an inquisitive note to her voice.

“Good ears. He said you really liked his postcards,” I say with a smirk.

“I think you’re lying.”

“What do you think he asked me, then?”

“Something else,” she says.

“Something like what?”

“Something you don’t want to tell me.”

But I do want to tell her. “He thinks I like you.”

“Oh yeah?”

I nod. “Crazy old man.”

“Insane, clearly.”

“Absolutely batty.” I point to the pack of cards in her hand. “What are you going to do with those?”

“I’ll send them to my sister.”

“In the post?”

She laughs. “No. I’ll do it the modern way. By snapping cell phone photos and sending them immediately. Instant gratification.”

“Gratification instantanée.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Maybe you should teach me how to say delayed gratification, too.”

That’s what I’m living every day. But then, delayed means the gratification with her will eventually come. I have no idea if it’ll always be out of reach.

* * *

We take lunch together on a Wednesday, and after we finish, we turn a corner onto a narrow cobblestoned street as the sky rumbles.

She gasps. “I’ve been waiting for it to rain.”

“It’s rained a few times in the two months we’ve worked together.”

She shakes her head. “Not enough. I want the rain that makes me scurry under an awning. I want the rain that filmmakers can only wish for.”

I arch a brow. “What’s that?”

“Rain that drenches the streets. That makes them look like jewels.”

Images of wet, sparkling roads unfurl before my eyes. “That’s what filmmakers want?”

“They often hire crews to spray water on streets. Because the best shot in all of film is a street after a rain. It sparkles. I want that kind of rain.”

“Do you really want that kind of rain, or do you just want the aftereffects?”

“I’ll take the rain to get the diamonds,” she says, then reaches into her bag and fishes around for something. She extracts an umbrella, a tiny little thing. But when she opens it, it wilts. The spokes don’t work.

“Merde,” she says, and I laugh.

“Such a good student.”

“My umbrella is broken,” she says in French.

“Even better.”

“No. What’s even better is shopping.” She points to a store down the street where the window displays an umbrella with black and white polka dots. It’s like a homing beacon for Joy, and she marches to the shop through the drizzle. She pushes on the door, and I follow her inside.

But she stops in her tracks and brings her hand to her mouth.

“The polka-dot one? The price is bonkers, right?”

She shakes her head and speaks in a reverent whisper. “No. Look.” A ruby-red umbrella is perched in a metal stand, its carved wooden handle poking out the top. Running a hand lovingly along the fabric, Joy looks as if she’s stroking a cat. “I’ll take it.”

She grabs the umbrella, heads to the counter, and buys the new one, disposing of the old.

When we step outside, big thick drops fall from the sky, and Joy opens the jewel-colored umbrella. She twirls it above her head, smiling under the cherry-red canopy she’s given herself. “Join me under my umbrella?”

I don’t know how she does it, but she makes everything sound like an invitation to travel to the place I most want to be right now. I take the umbrella in one hand, hold it above us, and wrap the other one around her shoulder.

She loops her arm around my waist, and we walk in the rain. She’s not due back at the office for twenty minutes, and she makes no move in that direction.

She looks at me, her expression serious. “What else is on the bucket list?”

I tense as the second item blasts like a neon sign in the night. Sleep with all the French girls. I don’t want to get into that one. “A number of things.”

I squeeze her shoulder, hoping a bit of contact will deflect her interest. But she’s no cat, distracted by a laser pointer. She’s a brilliant woman, hungry to know the truth.

“Evasive much?” she says.

“I’m not evasive.”

“Is it private? Is it a secret? It’s okay if it is. I’m just curious, since it’s literally the most important thing to you.”

The rain slaps against the streets like a persistent, wet drumbeat. Like it’s the soundtrack to this decision, urging me to open up more to her. She’s helping me with the list. I suppose the least I can do is tell her what else is on it.

“I don’t think you’ll like all of them.”

“You might as well tell me now, then.”

“The first is live in Paris.”

“You mentioned that. You said Ethan had wanted to. So you’re doing that.”

“And you know the ‘run a marathon’ one, so I’m working on that. Then there’s ‘help someone with a dream.’”

“And you’re doing that.”

“There are a few others I’ve done already, too.”

“And those are the ones I’d dislike?”

I shake my head. “No, but you might like this one. Number five. Have six-pack abs.”

Her eyebrows wiggle. “Oh là là.” She eyes my stomach. “You’ve accomplished that?”

I pat my belly. “You’re welcome to check for yourself.”

She darts her hand sideways, patting my abs over the fabric of my shirt. She slow claps. “Well done, Griffin. Well done.”

I stop to take a quick bow then keep walking.

She nudges me. “And yet, I don’t think that’s the one I’d dislike.”

I steel myself then say it. “The second is ‘sleep with all the French girls.’”

She jams an elbow into my side. “What a little piggy.”

I laugh as the rain hammers the ground, and we take refuge under an awning. “I told you that you wouldn’t like it.”

“Did you do that? Sleep with all the girls?” The question seems to taste bitter to her.

“Do you really want to know?” I toss back.

“That’s a yes, then.”

“Why are you asking if you don’t want to know?”

She huffs. “Just say you didn’t.”

I narrow my eyes, trying to figure her out. “Are you jealous?”

She scoffs. “Not at all.”

I hold up a thumb and forefinger. “A little?”

“Not in the least.”

I smile. “Good. Because I didn’t.” Then I add, “Not all of them, at least.”

“Oh, you’re awful.”

“I swear, I didn’t go overboard on that. Obviously, it’s an item you follow to the spirit not the letter of the law. But cut me some slack. I’m a thirty-year-old single guy living in Paris.”

She stares at me with narrowed eyes. I wrap an arm tighter around her. “Would it make you feel better knowing you’re the only one I want to sleep with now?”

She blinks. “Really?”

“This surprises you?”

“Yes, it does.”

“You think I want to sleep with other women?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want me to want to sleep with other women?”

She breathes out heavily then whispers a no.

A jolt rushes through me. God, how I want to touch her. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve wanted to get you naked since I met you?”

“No. How much?”

“So much you really ought to stop asking about other women. I don’t think about other women. I think about you. All the time. So much it drives me crazy. So much I want to say screw the friendship rules and kiss you senseless.”

“Would you? Kiss me senseless?”

Life is short. Events can change everything in the blink of an eye. Plans can crater. You have to take your chances. This is the chance I most want to take. “I would absolutely kiss you senseless.”

She leans against the wall under the awning, the red umbrella still over our heads as the rain pounds down. With my free hand, I reach for her face. She shudders when I touch her—a beautiful, sensual shiver that seems to move through her whole body.

From this. From my hand on her face, cupping her cheek.

I’m keenly aware that I want this first kiss to be spectacular for her. I want it to be everything for her. A kiss she remembers for all time. When I’m gone in some far-off land, and she’s still here, I want her to linger on this kiss.

I take my time, memorizing every second. The way her lips part. How her eyes stay locked with mine. They darken, shining with desire, with longing. A flush crawls up her neck—that delicious, seductive neck I’ve been dying to kiss for so long.

Once you have a first kiss with someone, you don’t get a do-over. You have to make it count. Make it worth every second of anticipation. “I don’t just want to sleep with you. I want to kiss you. Do you have any idea how much I’ve wanted to kiss you?”

Her hand darts out, curling around the fabric of my shirt at my belly. “How much?”

I inch closer. Our bodies line up. I press against her, so she knows the answer to the question. “So much that it’s all I think about. So much. I’ve wanted it for so long.”

When I dip my head toward her, her eyes float closed with an expression of both utter contentment and rampant longing.

Here, under the umbrella, as the rain drums on the streets of Paris, I brush my lips to hers.

And it’s everything I’ve imagined it would be.

She melts into my touch, and I take my time, my lips tracing hers, her breath ghosting over mine. Our bodies slide together. We are what we’ve wanted to be: lovers who can’t wait to touch. She tugs me even closer, and I know this kiss is about to blast through the atmosphere. I’m sure I can’t hold back any longer. The moment for slow and sweet has passed, and now that we’ve touched, a dam is going to break.

I’m going to devour her lips.

She’s going to consume mine.

We’re going to skip the rest of the day, stumble to her apartment, fall against the door, and at last come together. I can feel the pressure building inside both of us, like a gasket about to burst. As I clasp her face harder, my lips eager and urgent, her teeth clicking against mine, a loud trill sounds from my pocket.

“Ignore it,” she murmurs.

But it’s the ringtone from my boss.

I groan. “Fucking hell.”

I separate from her, and it’s like an affront to the fabric of the universe.

“Hello?”

“Glad I caught you. Can you come see me?”